death

The Old Man

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Four cottages stood in a silent row
out on the windswept lonely moor.
People came and people went
but no one came to the old mans door.

The old mans home stood empty now
autumn leaves littered the floor
a smell of must hung in the air,
winters damp and lack of care.

Seeking a home I entered in
Knowing nothing at all of him.
Like an intruder i climbed the stair
to a room, quiet, stark and bare.

An empty bed, the covers pulled back
an empty chair, a water glass
half full, a film of tired dust.
A hollow, a dip at the pillows heart,

round imprint of a sleeping head,
all that is left of the old man, dead.
He lay alone for two long weeks
abandoned in his silent bed

The Minstrel

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Peering through a mist

parting a veil, dusty webs,

staring back at fate.

I see the entrance vividly,

the exit all too clear

 

He rode into London in a cavalcade

his lady seated before him, bedazzled by all they saw

exchanging glances with his boisterous brothers

they rode in a merry troupe, loud laughter and youth

lute and tabor, bells and fine embroidery.

They roamed the streets at night

joyful pups in a rainbow of rags and finery

mocking wealth they cocked a snoop at death.

They attracted wide attention.

 

red ribbons and green

her hair swings in the sunlight

her eyes, her arms, life

 

Ah! but to stay in the streets and courtyards would have been far wiser.

What does youth know, exuberant, thoughtless, unwitting.

Attention a flattery, alluring.

Beckoned through wider and higher doors

they entered in. Gardens of delight, sweet scents and song

gentle harmless beauty, so it seemed to him.

A peace fell upon him there, he dreamed in poetry.

Darkness approached. The shadow of a cloud on the grass as it crosses that summers sun.

 

lavender lady

seats herself amongst roses

charming, so disarming

 

Requests made, favours granted ,

twisted meanings, things not understood,

so many whispers in quiet corridors,

the web of intrigue draws tighter,

he spoke the wrong words too lightly

spilling his thoughts into treacherous ears.

This tale reveals all that was feared.

The shadow of the Tower looms closer.

He longs to leave this city, they will flee at night,

run to the countryside

where the hills are wide and sweeping,

where the willows lean gently

over the Avon weeping.

All too late.

He prays she got away.

 

dark walls draw inward

music screams loud in the silence

of la oubliette

 

this is not his final end, the world is too unkind

better to be forgotten than to suffer such a fate

still unsatisfied they dragged him out

it turns and troubles my stomach now

to watch the rest of this

the pain became too great and ceased, he rose

floating high above himself, looking down on horror

seeing things no-one should see

and my pen grows silent, as he fades away in light

 

red roses spread out

he flies above the woodlands

butterflies of light

 

 

 

Good Evening

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Good evening

 

The day of death comes when it comes

that’s the sum and the wonder of it,

it teaches us how we should live.

 

If I find the wait for departure

too gruelling, or late,

I won’t stand about on that grey platform

in the cold, without a companion,

huddled up in a worn out old coat,

my collar turned up and shivering.

So tiresome!

 

When all is prepared, right and ready

I will die with delight

on a bright moonlit night,

clear stars filling the sky,

I will hold up my soul

to the moonlight above.

I will tell the world

how much I have loved it,

give thanks, state my intention.

strip off the old coat

and accept the warmth

that comes with the cold

in a garden at night

very old.

 

The rest will be history

written by others

if written at all

in a never ending story