The bird he speaks to me of wasted time
of how I labour inside when the weather is fine.
The dog rolls on his back, paws in the air
For my writing he does not care.
The sky it darkens in the west.
I cease my toil, that is best.
“What is the end of Fame ? ’tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper :
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour ;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their ‘midnight taper’,
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture and worse bust”.
(Lord Byron “Growing Old”, http://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/Classic%20Poems/Byron/growing_old.htm).
A book of poems upon his grave
Could not the poet save.
The few his words touched
Failed to keep him from the dust.
The empty hours.
Scentless flowers
Time devours man’s fleeting powers
Let us watch the sunbeams on the walls
Your hand held fast in mine as evening falls.
The day has been long
Our race it is run
Let us go down with the setting sun
Spring. Early morning. Not particularly chilly.
A fox’s bark cold and sharp.
A shiver runs through me.
I seek the warm sanctuary of my bed.
The sound of the clock, each tick bringing it a little closer
An owl hoots in the park
A fox barks
Cars pass outside
The bed is warm
Somewhere a couple laugh
Time creeps onwards
I roll over
Sleep envelops,
I dream
Is death one long dream from which we never wake? And, if so would I know the difference between the state of dreaming and that of death?
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Laughter in the bar. Drink flows, hail fellow, well met.
Standing at the urinal, looking out, through frosted glass into the darkness from whence we came and to which we shall return.
We fear the eternal night, surround ourselves with light but, when we look into the darkness we are faced, struggle as we may to avoid the truth of it,
with the inevitability of death, the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.
Returning once more to the laughter. The clinking of glasses while, outside the darkness waits, patiently to swallow me.
(I am blind but can distinguish between light and dark and perceive outlines of objects but not their detail. So, for example I might see a shape but have no idea as to whether it was a man, woman or tree).
Cars, like waves swish past.
Distant sound of engines forever passing, here then lost, tossed on the tides of time and space.
A horn sounds, a driver going somewhere perhaps.
My study. Books in cases stand. A poster on a wall, the dolphin swims, forever caught on paper.
The night is dark. Outside engines rev and die. In my room the dolphin looks down from the picture. A fish on a wall, how strange.
Thoughts travel with vehicles along endless roads, while I sit, the dolphin looking on, swimming perpetually on a wall.
K Morris - Poet 