Ode to His Waterloo

His voice is gone beyond what I can hear.I trace each step we took with newer, silent friends.Forty and one years have passed while I still tread our path. 
He spends his time hobnobbing with comrades of fame, though renown forgot his name. Not me. He was at once the king of all I knew. No nouns, no verbs become him now. 
He haunts the paths of Waterloo as four red-faced cranesand three skipping deer race over leaf-strewn hills. His directions to the spring are erased from memory. 
The pull of sky claimed him. This poaching trip called to capture the first sight of trilliumheralding spring along a black-bedded creek.
Those may-apple umbrellas are his calling card.