- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Ageing - Adagio
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An infant's eloquence
persuades stern adults to his every whim,
commands without a word. Was that me?
Boy without a care, certain of himself,
his people and
in wonder at his world, no doubt intrudes.
In the joy and strength of youth, immortal,
unconquerable, it thrills me still,
but through perhaps imperfect memory.
Each thought and enquire of my inner mind.
Where goodness, malice, love, and hate, lie
side by side, waiting each their turn.
And in respect of passing gods,
ambitions gained, and lost, and unfulfilled.
What was, or might have been, or might be still.
The boned remnants of my faith,
through experience desiccate.
Will it be enough, and will it matter?
At the four and fifty years you gave me,
words to say you fail me utterly.
And now your death and what it means.
I cannot grieve for you,
but hold you still, root and branch within my very being,
and in the springtime of my imagination.
And in the last, at what remains of my decay,
as time grows short and fear is quieted,
a curious serenity.
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