Our goldfish died this week.
Lived on the kitchen bench, in the face of danger.
Survived holidays, children, me.
Lying on the bottom, majestic tail flicking no more.

The Crocodile Hunter died this week.
Sidled crocodiles, snakes, lived on the edge.
A passionate creature, wild eyed larrikin.
Sting ray’s lightning tail flick made him the hunted.

The King of the Mountain died this week.
Caressed corners, checkered flags, harrowing hairpins.
Peter Perfect, measured, accomplished.
Missed the turn, will turn no more.

The King is Dead, said the newspaper.
If he were, then death would be the victor.
No, the King is risen, he is risen indeed.
Death lurks, sometimes shouts in headlines.
But my hope rests firm.