He, like the cobwebbed sundial
moves through the repetitive, boring, mundane then numb
counting his steps in degrees
to the weakening tap, step,step tap of his cane on cement.
Or more precisely,
a smoothed shillelagh which once leant
an air of strength, fight, taut sinews and grit
with a wee bit of spinning Irish moxie.
That image now quickly corrected by
Thin-skinned scabs, scars and
tears on his gnarled knuckled grip.
The scents of ointment and salves
huddled with a warm hay-like aroma
of this garden gone to seed.
His only movement now
an imperceptible advance in shades
of his bronzed drowsing face
on the incomplete sentence of the bench
1954 – 20
There well before his time.
~.~
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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Remarkable!
You managed to be many things at once: grave yet witty, entertaining yet enigmatic, understanding yet self-deprecating.... but always entertaining.
I love the descriptions. You have an uncanny eye for detail but a talent for knowing just how much of it to pen... and just how much to leave out.
Cubert sent me here, and I'm glad she did!
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Fuck me darling, writing your own epitaphs! Jesus Christ, this scared the shit out me! But can I just say, what a wonderfully penned piece - if not something that breaks rocks with a tear
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His garden may be gone to seed but with the right hoe stimulating his, um... Irish Moxie - his green thumb will be ready willing and able, awaiting Spring
galfalfa
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It is good to see you gracing the pages of AP again. I think we are all 'incomplete sentences' until those final two digits are etched in stone.
Sincerely,
Leo Long
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Sounds like mmm someone I know. Hope it isn't me!! LOL
Nahh. Dates are too recent.
Applause, great to see you writing again.
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