Fiercely
Independent
‘Yes’, she said, observing all the graces,
And pandering to my waning self-esteem,
‘You’re fiercely independent’
Which made me think of all the old men
First the one who lives upon the shore
Beachcombing for his living
Battling the turning silver tides
Taking only what the sea would give him
Then the one who wanders empty streets
With his bagged-up sole possessions
Searching for an empty doorway
And refusing offers of a night-shelter
The one who was found dead on Tuesday
Cold and stiff in his living room
His body not discovered for several days
Because he kept himself to himself
And the one who was buried yesterday
Whose epitaph could easily apply to me
For he did not suffer fools gladly either
And was beholden to no man
Yes he was eccentric, sometimes strange
Sometimes awkward, could be difficult
Liked to plough his own furrow
And to follow his own shining star
Nor would he let others help him
Nor brook their well-meaning interference
Because it was his independence and his freedom
That were the very things that defined him
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