the door that stands behind her slowly opens
i kick it shut
time after time
each time i look it’s open again
this mysterious haunting door
nothing is visible, nothing profound
i see her longing,
longing for sleep,
i see fear,
a lost look in her eyes,
as i hold her still, warm hand
there are tears in my eyes
i won’t let them flow for her now
the door swings ever wider
and lets in a soft evening light
it’s gentle, that light,
i see that
She wanders in and out of dreams
and cannot tell the difference.
The people of the night, it seems,
create the day’s agenda.
She follows phantoms down the path
wherever they may send her.
Old houses merge into this house,
old friends, in throngs, attend her.
The door is gone that once stood there,
the chairs misplaced,
the rooms askew,
and only I defend her.
The cellars vanished in the night,
everything is turned about,
she does not know the reason.
Old age has finally found her out,
this is the final season,
but laughter, when I find the way,
battles this confusion.
I feel sad but make her smile.
It beats the blackguards from our gates
and brings some respite, for a while,
and frees me from illusions.
Go gentle, gentle, into that good night
Old age brings acceptance of this last fate
Fly, fly to the beckoning, golden light
All seasons will end by pre-ordained right
The wise men know that when the hour is late
Their soul will take leave for eternal light
Good men do not fear the long, deep dark night.
Do not rage, sadly berating your fate,
Go gentle and rest, return to the light
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
Will sing in their dreams with no wish to wait
They will fly swiftly, to shining, bright light
Grave men will ponder the beauty of night
They will pray tenderly, knowing their fate,
Remembering all that was loving, bright
And you my father, in that blessed night
Look upon me, with no sadness, and wait
I will not rage at the death of the light
I will go gentle into that good night
***************************
(sorry Mr Thomas – you know this means no disrespect – you are my favourite poet after Shakespeare – and I will pray for you often)
when i am old i wont do anything
but think
and run my life back and forward
in my mind
in translucent back-lit visions
the trek to the kitchen and back
a long journey
re-gaining at last the armchair
i will sleep
to dream dreams of the long gone days
i will develop a liking for jelly and custard
milk pudding
soup from a can and cheese with jam
cream cakes
and forget what i meant to have for breakfast
the taps will drip, the fire will burn cold
windows rattle
and the mice will move in unafraid
as company
to eat all the fabrics to tatters
i will confuse the books i have read
with memories
i will see the ghosts of my family
standing by
wondering if they will lead me away tonight
I wont care about any of this
watching light
watching shadows move across the walls, my clock
distant birds
i will ignore all bad news and live in imagination
drifting back to childhood again
so clear
with all my family gathered near
the dead ones
now will become a space between waking and sleep
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
The Dreaming Path 