Oft of a summer’s day
Have I turned away
To write.
I shall go out tomorrow
And forget my words
In the singing of birds.
But when night
Falls, I shall return what I borrow
From my ever present friend
Old Father Time
And my brief rhyme
Shall reach it’s end.
As I walk through the churchyard,
Along this hard
Path,
I laugh
For although
The day Is cold, those below
Do not know
That it is so
A bird sang
In the churchyard as I
Passed by.
A thought unbidden sprang
Into my heart.
For all my art
I know that I shall die.
Going to bed
I shed
My skin. When I awake
I shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor.
One day
I shall go away
Leaving my skin
To be sold in
Some charity store.
Rummaging through bags on the floor
Maybe some shopper will buy
A piece of me.
Perchance a thoughtful soul may wonder why
My skin came to be there.
Or, more likely they will not care
For bargain hunting is the new thing, and besides, giving money to a good cause
Oft results in applause.
—
Going to bed
They shed
Their skin. When they awake
They shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor …
The cold rain does fall.
I recall
We stood in the shelter
Of the old hall.
Helter skelter
The years whirl by.
Now I
Sit alone
In my home
Thinking on the cold rain
And the old hall that will remain
When I also make my way
Into those woods where we were wont to play.
—
Bits of data
Fly.
Sooner or later
I shall die.
I
Wonder why
I
Should care
Where
My words will go
For I know
That the winter snow
Will cover all.
Perhaps a few may recall
A word I said
When I am dead.
But in my graveyard plot
I shall know it not.
Why this conceit
On my part
that others should repeat
Let alone understand what lay in my heart?
I would
Do good
But know
I have not always done so.
Sitting here in this winter weather
I see a feather
Float on high
Through indifferent sky.
The wind will sigh
When I am gone
But not for me,
Though I shall be free
As wind and sea.
Do those who drink of Lethe
Find surcease
From pain?
Or do they wrack their brain
In a vain
Attempt to regain
What is forever, lost?
O to be free of regret
And forever forget
A life ill spent.
But what cost
To drink
Of Lethe and no more think,
But merely to do
As like some automaton
We wander through
Hades
Where memory fades
And days are as one.
The departed are gone
But know it not, or perhaps they do
As tears may break through
When half remembered years
Enter the head
Of the living dead.
All men meet the ferryman, but not all fear
The guide
Who carries us to the other side.
It is Lethe drear
That inspires most dread.
The Greeks said
That the ferryman comes before we quench our thirst
In Lethe’s waters.
But no, ‘Tis not always so
For sons and daughters are left behind
When loved ones find
The river where memory fractures, before the body dies.
On such a day, when the winter sun
Casts my shadow upon yonder wall,
It is difficult to recall
That all
This will, one day, be done.
In future, will some other one, sitting here and seeing their shadow fall
Upon this self-same wall,
Know that they may not forestall
The night
Where dancing shadows are forever lost from sight.
—
(Written on 3 December 2016, while sitting in my study).
—
(Note: “Shadows” can be found in my latest collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind”, which is available from Amazon, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0735JBVBG and from Moyhill Publishing, http://moyhill.com/clock/).
Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape.
There can be no escape
From the tomb.
The gloom
Is there
For those who care
To look beyond a sunny day.
continuing on my way
I passed that tree,
That did loom
Over tomb
And me.
There is an equalitie in the grave
Where the brave,
The coward, the rich and the poor
All must bow down,, to death’s all conquering law.
In the beds of the living,
There may be mutual giving
And equalitie,
But love may not always be free
K Morris - Poet 