On being old and frail,
And at death’s elbow,
Yet greeting the clock face
With its welcome news
That the deep sleep I
Had left behind, had
Hours to run in blissful
Lack of care. Pulling the
Bed clothes up for comfort,
Head and face down in oblivion
From softness into softness, an unimagined gift,
For age is no hard guarantee that – eyes closed –
What follows is the dark that shuts away the strains
Of living to decreptitude.
One hopes for certainties of a childhood bed,
And that yet unknown adult responsibilities
Stay far away and, perhaps, may never call.
That we may burble for help which is close at hand.
There’s more to come, but not, alas, from me.
I was transfixed and felt th’old devil’s urge
To catch the trope; to write, as is my tendency,
I needed wakefulness and soft must wait another day