2 January 2014 BBC 13:45 GMT Waltham Chase crash:
A motorcyclist has died in a collision with a car in Hampshire. Timothy Barfoot, 41, from Eastleigh, was riding along the B2177 Winchester Road in Waltham Chase when he collided with a BMW at about 13:45 GMT. He was pronounced dead at the scene. The car driver, a 23-year-old woman, was treated for shock but was not otherwise injured.
These few factual descriptive words broadcast over the Internet into the homes and business of many, are the words no parent, wife, child, brother, sister or friend want to see. It sends a chill up the spine and immediate sadness to all once so closely connected to someone now gone from their lives. When Chris made this announcement to those of us scattered around the world it felt as though each of us lost a brother or son.
Our youngest brother Timmy – Father to Molly, Toby and Harry, Uncle to Bianca, Son to Eileen and John, Brother to Paul and myself, Husband of Michelle – was involved in motor accident today and pronounced dead at the scene.
My thoughts are with our folks, his children and Michelle, Sarah and Sue too.
I gave him a kiss over Christmas, so glad I did. Love you Tim. RIP Little brother. XXXXXX
Tim Barfoot never forgotten created using @flipagram ♫ Music: AWOLNATION – Sail
by Lord Alfred Tennyson
(with apologies to Tennyson for the edit)
O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me
No casual mistress, but a wife,
My bosom-friend and half of life;
As I confess it needs must be;
O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood,
Be sometimes lovely like a bride,
And put thy harsher moods aside,
If thou wilt have me wise and good.
My centred passion cannot move,
Nor will it lessen from to-day;
But I’ll have leave at times to play
As with the creature of my love;
And set thee forth, for thou art mine,
With so much hope for years to come,
That, howsoe’er I know thee, some
Could hardly tell what name were thine.
Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt;
I lull a fancy trouble-tost
With “Love’s too precious to be lost,
A little grain shall not be spilt.”
And in that solace can I sing,
Till out of painful phases wrought
There flutters up a happy thought,
Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:
Since we deserved the name of friends,
And thine effect so lives in me,
A part of mine may live in thee
And move thee on to noble ends.
So many worlds, so much to do,
So little done, such things to be,
How know I what had need of thee,
For thou wert strong as thou wert true?
The fame is quench’d that I foresaw,
The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath:
I curse not nature, no, nor death;
For nothing is that errs from law.
We pass; the path that each man trod
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:
What fame is left for human deeds
In endless age? It rests with God.
O hollow wraith of dying fame,
Fade wholly, while the soul exults,
And self-infolds the large results
Of force that would have forged a name.
This truth came borne with bier and pall
I felt it, when I sorrow’d most,
‘Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all —
O true in word, and tried in deed,
Demanding, so to bring relief
To this which is our common grief,
What kind of life is that I lead;
And whether trust in things above
Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d;
And whether love for him have drain’d
My capabilities of love;
The great Intelligences fair
That range above our mortal state,
In circle round the blessed gate,
Received and gave him welcome there;
And led him thro’ the blissful climes,
And show’d him in the fountain fresh
All knowledge that the sons of flesh
Shall gather in the cycled times.
But I remain’d, whose hopes were dim,
Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth,
To wander on a darken’d earth,
Where all things round me breathed of him. ‘
O friendship, equal-poised control,
O heart, with kindliest motion warm,
O sacred essence, other form,
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul!
Yet none could better know than I,
How much of act at human hands
The sense of human will demands
By which we dare to live or die.
And so my passion hath not swerved
To works of weakness, but I find
An image comforting the mind,
And in my grief a strength reserved.
Now looking to some settled end,
That these things pass, and I shall prove
A meeting somewhere, love with love,
I crave your pardon, O my friend;
‘Tis held that sorrow makes us wise;
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee
Which not alone had guided me,
But served the seasons that may rise;
For can I doubt, who knew thee keen
In intellect, with force and skill
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil —
With thousand shocks that come and go,
With agonies, with energies,
With overthrowings, and with cries
And undulations to and fro.
O days and hours, your work is this
To hold me from my proper place,
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss:
That out of distance might ensue
Desire of nearness doubly sweet;
And unto meeting when we meet,
Delight a hundredfold accrue,
For every grain of sand that runs,
And every span of shade that steals,
And every kiss of toothed wheels,
And all the courses of the suns.
But in my spirit will I dwell,
And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.
O living will that shalt endure
When all that seems shall suffer shock,
Rise in the spiritual rock,
Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure,
That we may lift from out of dust
A voice as unto him that hears,
A cry above the conquer’d years
To one that with us works, and trust,
With faith that comes of self-control,
The truths that never can be proved
Until we close with all we loved,
And all we flow from, soul in soul.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.
Whereof the man, that with me trod
This planet, was a noble type
Appearing ere the times were ripe,
That friend of mine who lives in God,
That God, which ever lives and loves,
One God, one law, one element,
And one far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.