I am rested today.
I shall stay that way,
Getting plenty of sleep
But, sooner or later
This prater
Will, his toil
Cease, and find peace
In nature’s good soil,
For I maintain
That none can foil
The reaper of grain.
We say
“He passed away”.
The “d” word
Is often
Not heard.
He is in his coffin
So why this absurd
Fear
Of the “d” word?
Does the Reaper, standing, unnoticed, near
Smile at our denial
That you and I
Shall die?
Larkin took refuge in drink
But, at dawn did think
On death
And felt bereft.
I have now said
The word we dread
To voice.
We have a choice
Over what words are said
But we are nonetheless, dead
In the end
My friend.
When a very old man of Stroud
Said, “death be not proud”,
Death replied, “you know,
We must together go,
And leave this earthly crowd”.
All around
I hear
The sound
Of birds in the graveyard near
To my home.
As I walk alone,
Through this place of bone,
A thought profound,
“Those underground
Can not hear”.
When on my way
Through the churchyard today
I nearly fell,
I knew well
That one day,
There I will stay
As you pass
By the grass
My friend,
Do you, As I
Know that all flesh is grass
In the end?
When we die
I wonder where all our lust
Love and hate Goes?
Who knows?
But methinks
That he who drinks
From Hades stream
Is lost in a dreamless dream
With other dust.
50 soon.
The moon
Will wax and wane
As it must.
And the sun will rise and set
On my joy and regret.
Everything will remain
The same.
And the dust
Laughs at my lust
The wind laughs in a tree.
And as for me
I think on my poetry
I like the dark.
He is my friend
And I know
That I shall go
To him in the end.
K Morris - Poet 