An insect
Brushed against my head.
I showed it respect,
For soon it will be dead
And an insect
Is fragile
As a girl’s smile.
A kiss.
Or the bliss
Of bed.
And the wind blew chill
And will
Do still,
When I am dead.
The chime
Of my old, staid
Clock, does remind
me that there is a debt
To be paid.
But time,
Ends all regret.
“He liked to rhyme
And was fond
Of women
And wine,
And sinning.
Now he has gone beyond
Women,
And wine,
And sinning.
And he is out of time
For rhyme”.
Its a brief stroll
Through the churchyard for me
And my soul.
And although there be
No clock in the church tower,
To chime
The hour
For me,
Time
Must stop
And there will be
No more need of clock
For thee
Or me.
My hands are cold
And I am growing old.
The wall clock measures time
As I rhyme
Of young women
And sinning.
But I am growing old
And my hands are cold.
When the clock
Does stop,
You can wind
It again.
But when
The brain,
(Some say mind)
Ceases to be,
What shall become
Of you and me?
For there is no sun
To see,
And we,
Can not rewind.
Oh churchyard tree
You will outlast me
And your branches provide shade
To lad and maid,
Though I go below.
Yet, in the end,
My churchyard friend,
Thee and me
Having our lives run
Must both succumb
To mortality.
The tombstones look back at me
And will continue to be,
When I can no longer see.
I am going home
Today,
Alone
(Save for my dog).
I have been away
For a week or so,
And will be sad
To go
But glad
To return by train.
One day, I shall travel unfamiliar terrain
And find a new home.
I will be
Alone,
But shall I see
A confined space, with a stone
Above?
Or shall I know god’s love?
Or simply die
And be,
No longer I?
A young man named Lee
Composed a poem about mortality.
It is not very long,
But, his talent being strong,
That verse long outlasted Lee.
K Morris - Poet 