Radio-raised bard of the spinning flies,
how young you left this ever-grieving world.
The last dinosaur closed his dreaming eyes
and summer ended. Both had grown too old.

Tolkein-talking star of the shine-machine,
friend of the very tree your ending spelled,
Feld was your name and when your life had been,
O, how we wished that arbour had been felled.

Its woodnymph surely must have been possessed
or else green-envious of elven sprites,
maddened by moonshine in her leafy breast
or giddy with the glories of the heights

or angry at the world's September hunger
which hoards up its supplies against the time.
Which ever sin it was that caused her anger,
another good man died in wisdom's prime.

Children we were, fantastic and aware,
tuned to starlight and the cosmic spheres,
dreams of planets tingling through our hair,
alas, made on the stuff that disappears.

But custom wills that comfort should be drawn
from every tragedy, so may your tomb,
to use your rhyme, yield forth to be reborn
your spirit, dancing from another womb.