There comes
a day for
everyone
when they
eat their
final meal
Tag: literature
Tell, a story
In the ancient
city mounds of
the Middle East,
flat layers of mud,
one on top of
the other, are the
squashed remains
of houses and streets,
flat like pages in
a history book,
the lives of people
in each generation,
reduced to a few
inches of mud
baked in a thousand
years of Sun days.
In my memory
houses I have
lived in, one after
the other, from child
to old man,
are also flat pages;
all those years of
rich living, of friends
and family, of sadness
and joy, in sickness
and in health, all
compressed into
a few ghostly
thin memories,
dried by the heat
of life as lived.
Drip, drip, drip
As we grow older
small invisible
pores form in our skulls
and from them (like holes
in water tanks) drip
thoughts and ideas,
and memories of
recent times (being
closer to surface
of the mind), and wit
and concentration,
and names of people
once known like brothers
and sisters, and new
appointments, and old
research written by
me (apparently).
Quite soon the tank of
my mind I thought so
full will empty, like
dams drying in this
fearsome drought of my
old age.
Knuckling down
When I was just
a soft boy child
I would take my
bag of marbles,
bought sparingly
with well earned
pocket money,
to the schoolyard
and lose them all
to boys with hard
knuckles and much
harder eyes. Was
it a lesson
for adult life?
Yes but I failed
to learn from it.
Lost is lost
When I write my
life story
the bits I leave
out, or forget,
have disappeared
for ever
from human
history
Acerbus et indignus
Whenever war
is declared,
whichever countries
are involved,
you will find,
making the
announcement,
a clown, backed
by his followers –
all hard-faced men
who intend to
do well out of it.
Time, lord
If an imaginary
being was going
to step in and
save the world
before we wreck it
he’s left it
rather too late
End of the road
Old age is
like walking through
a Grimm forest
in a dark night;
branches whip
the face; unseen
carnivores roar;
pits give way
underfoot; trees
fall with a crack;
and somewhere
ahead on the path,
waiting in the gloom,
is the slough of despond
Paper trail
The act of
reading books –
of feeling weight,
texture; of
hearing a turning
page; the smell
of paper and
ink; the sight of
black type on
creamy white
paper. Eyes, and
hands, and knees,
and brain, working
together, to
recreate the
physical process
of writing the book.
Thoughts turned to
words on page
turned back
to thought.
But here, on
this kindle, words
flow effortlessly
across the screen
and into my brain.
Have I lost
something
or gained
something?
Past master
Writing my
autobiography
lets me rule
a line under
my past and
decide what
to do with
my life as
I approach
three quarters
of a century
