Gerry's Shrine

At the pub in Portugal where he used to perform, they've put up a little shrine to my recently-deceased brother, Gerry.

It makes me think of Rupert Brooke's war poem, "The Soldier."

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.


And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

"England" should be "Canada," in this case, but that does not scan.

It is a time for death, it seems.