John Muskett sent me a message to tell me he had attended the funeral of Murray Thompson. By all accounts it was as good an occasion as you might wish for with fine words spoken. Murray was piped out of the church by his son William.

John included in his message a poem that Murray penned 20 years ago. It is lovely. Here it is:

Lake Fever
I must go up to the lake again. to the lonely lake in the sky
and all I ask is a clean cast and a fly with a fish nearby
And the cicadas click and the winds song and the fishes strike shaking
and the mist on the lakes face and a clear dawn breaking.
I must go up to the lake again, for the call of the running line
is a wild call and a clear call that cannot be denied
and all I ask is a calm day with the white clouds flying
and the whiskey water and the golden tussock
and the skylarks crying.
I must go up to the lake again, to the rambling fisherman’s life
to the high hills and and the clear banks where the winds like a sharp knife
and all I ask is a cheerful yarn with a laughing fellow caster
and a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long days over.
Murray Thompson 1996