In Bradford’s embrace, a star was born,
A thespian’s light, now dimmed and torn.
From Shakespeare’s stage to silver screen,
Timothy West, a presence serene.
Bolingbroke, Lear, and Edward VII,
His roles diverse, a talent from heaven.
On classical boards, he stood supreme,
Commanding audiences, fulfilling dreams.
From “Jackal” to “Cry Freedom” he shone,
His versatility, to all was shown.
In “Iris” with son, generations linked,
A family’s passion, in celluloid inked.
Canal journeys with beloved Prunella,
Navigating life’s waters, ever the storyteller.
To EastEnders’ square, he brought such grace,
A familiar, comforting, treasured face.
Commander of Empire, honoured and true,
Doctor of letters, accolades due.
Author, director, a Renaissance man,
His legacy vast, impossible to span.
Now the curtain falls, the stage grows dark,
But memories of West will forever spark.
In hearts and minds, his art lives on,
Though the man himself has sadly gone.
Farewell, dear Timothy, take your bow,
Your final act complete somehow.
In drama’s pantheon, you’ll always be,
A beacon of British artistry.
Bob Lynn / 13-Nov-2024
