There have been several recent deaths that have touched my life.
There is also a nagging encroachment into my life of the signs of my own mortality.
All of which leaves me no choice but to think.
As I struggle to corral my thoughts and set them in some kind of framework. I find that, as with all of the most profound human experiences, it is only poetry that has the strength to carry the weight of the mystery I find myself staring at; prose just cannot do it.
And so I found myself in the small hours of last night crafting a poem that expresses something of what I am feeling at present, and of something that I am holding on to.
The Approaching Footfall
There is flat, focussed footfall,
At the edge of my perception.
Close by, afar?
Impossible to tell.
There is no advantage won in running,
Yet nothing lost in standing still.
The meeting, though obscure,
Is fixed inviolate in time.
– And that acceptance made,
The fear is less, the when
And more, the how.
A peaceful passing?
Old and full of years,
A slow decline into the dark abyss;
A live coal that flames,
Then cold extinguished,
Lost to sight.
Or a wild, explosive raging at the dying of the light?
– Do not speak of legacy, that charade,
That myth of lasting worth,
As if a fistful of years,
Would not suffice,
To wipe the greatest from the earth.
The Ozymandian conceit
Is merciless laid bare
– The wind blows,
The sands shift,
No trace remains.
-What value then, a life?
If there is a heart,
From which the universe receives its pulse,
And if that heart regards a man,
And scrutes him path and deed and thought
Then only in that heart survives
An estimation, value, worth.
And if that heart were moved so to,
It might recognise itself in dim reflect
And cede that as an offspring child
From which no Father can himself de-turn
But gathers in and shares his life
And suffers not to part again.
Stephen John MARCH the Feast of St Scholastica, 2017