(In memory of Pete Farrell, who died tragically in a vehicle accident)

Bad news came down the Clapham Road
Beyond the Dingley Dell.
The Magic Pete was struck in flight
And rushed to hospital.

The angels cried, "Pete’s hurt full sore.
He had so much to do,
The radiance gone from his flashing eyes
That used to sparkle blue."

Their wings spread wide, their tears fell down
In April 2003,
Awakening the flower folk of Flitwick
To their mercy plea.

"Be good to him," the flowers sang,
"As he was good to you,
And dance with him as he did dance
Upon the morning dew."

The Creeping Buttercup awoke, as did the Broad-Leaved Dock.
The wildflowers of Flitwick arose
To hold Pete with their stock.

"Pete built a house," Cow Parsley cried,
"Yet never saw it done
To gaze through the Sunday morning mist
And drink tea with Sunday sun."

Danced Pignut with the Smooth Sow Thistle,
Wood Avens with Rose Raspberry,
Lords and Ladies lamented Pete
And held him to their belly.

"Better read, sharper wit, finer artist, there was none,"
The Ground Elder, Spring Beauty, Lady’s Bedstraw
Flowers sung.

Meadow and Bulbous Buttercups sway
In Flitwick’s churchyard proud
To keep Pete warm, his soul returned
Unto the angel’s shroud.

I miss you, Pete, as many do.
Your peers of Flitwick Town
And I’m left to gaze at the magic wildflowers
Where you rest in our churchyard’s grounds.