Eventide, at the waning of the sun:
the scribe is done, all-but, save the index
and the binding. How well the tale's been told -
the endless ennui; the agonies; fun
and frolics in their turn (for even sex
had left its mark, some warmth to ease the bold,

chaotic passage of each turbid year) -
and now, as cramp-wracked fingers loose the pen
he settles back, unkinks hunched shoulder blades
and eases down into his chair. His fear -
of being deemed a fool - bites deep (for when,
and how likely do the various grades

of ignorance and frank cupidity
not shade into outright misquotation,
misinterpretation, or, heavens know,
the coal-black murk of rank stupidity?)
But moods change swiftly, for in rotation
rises, first, relief, as a warm, pink glow

of satisfaction at a job complete,
the various narrative twists and turns
of his tale enfolded, described, just right;
in its wake, accomplishment of his feat,
through which he'd felt a scalding justice burns;
and last, but scarcely least, within plain sight

of his initial impulse, repleteness.
A life! A life in words; a life written:
his life, his glorious, wonderful life!
A rich and parti-coloured life, no less,
in which he'd been much bitten and smitten
by hates and loves, in which he'd felt both strife

and peace, had had his fill of tears, great joys,
the gravity of grief, and yet won through
to rise and fight and laugh and live again!
To understand the journey, and rejoice,
nay, exhilarate in the old, the new,
the crazy and mundane, each called refrain

a lesson learned, a fresh discovery
every day to make his life worth living.
What on earth could be more gratifying
than setting thoughts in train, recovery
of long-lost memories, the forgiving
nature of time and the satisfying

knowledge that the yarn's been spun, and spun well?
The stars wax brightly, silvering the scribe's
pate with translucent brilliance, lightly
blanketing him in night's nacreous shell
of sleep, where he sinks into dreams, imbibes
their nectar and floats off, snoring slightly.

M. Peacock 14 - 2625