i.m. John Donne

Such airy valedictions cannot span this bridge in time

What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is very definitely mine.

We both can hear the quiet roar of our own new found land

As time drifts to a stop and as we focus near and far

We no longer stand amazed at the hollow rancour of public life

And have no more time for the mere indulgences of strife.

We look too much upon these empty places, the sands

That have run out, sans mistress, husband, lover, wife.

Faces that bloomed at noontide fade like a plangent song

Sung as we leave the stage with ne’er a whisper of regret

To walk into eternity with all the grace the less deceived

Can muster, as leaves bloom golden at this turning of the year.

And now those twin compass points of greed and fear draw near

Quite suddenlly diappear:  a point upon a circle, a tear upon a face:

The merest sliver of golden, silk-embroidered lace.

jd

◄ The voice of death, the voice of love and the voice of art.

THE GHOST WHO SELLS MEMORIES ►

Comments

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poemagraphic

Wed 18th Mar 2020 22:14

Arrr. Life's rich tapestry John.

Another great write.
Po

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