Philip, I don't feel your fear.
Occasionally I look ahead and wonder.
I feel sure that death's not near -
perhaps a comfortable delusion I'm under?
Oh, since the timing's uncertain
why not ignore the final curtain?
Those early hours when dawn is hesitant
are not the time for contemplation.
Try the Test results: our failing nation's
always good for an early rant.
I can't deny that death will happen,
but, with outraged certainty, you knew
you were trapped in a pattern;
nothing more sure, nothing more true -
your father died at 63
and so would you.
The monstrous fairy legend: "I will curse you
with the knowledge of the hour of your death."
Larkin believed there was a count of every breath:
he knew that soon he would he would breathe the last few.
Not to be here. Not to be anywhere.
He was right: the knowlege freezes us.
Most push it into the long grass
as I do. My mind clings to the moment;
this sunlit morning, this music, this poem,
this friendship, this love.
Perhaps illness will force cognition.
Larkin didn't wait for that end and
we grieve that this was so;
for, each time we turn to him, he lives.
No comments:
Post a Comment