There is no quality at the end

when twilight seeps over the sills,

merely wrinkled skin, crumbled dreams,

a million torn pages,

mumbles, grumbles, antique rages,

early-to-beds and late regrets.

 

He twists arthritically to reach and flatten

long stray strands of hair, grey now. 

He has shambled over one last beach,

tired worn flannels flapping,

resenting the curse of teenage mermaids

laughing, pointing, jeering, clapping.

 

He peers into the gloom,                                                

a future bleak and embalmed,

a frozen tableau and a cold moon,

a dull shard of what once was,

all pain, decline, degraded,

memories, moments, faded,

struggling, shrinking, coughing,

so aware he’s old and jaded,

slipping, solitary, towards the Cimmerian beyond.

 

On his final stage

he no longer hears the crowd gasping,

it’s his chest heaving, his breath rasping.

Oh, if only he could resume….

So many relationships to mend,

more subtle scenes to play again,

a host of tragedies to transcend,

and he wants so much to stay

the hand that turns the handle

that closes tight the curtain…

 

It has all been too rapid,

this awful sweep from the first scene to the last,

from ignition to deletion,

and absolute certainty looms, terrible and sharp:

in a hundred years no living soul will know

of his deeds, his tales of joy and woe

turned to dust in a graveyard

where only weeds will grow.

 

© Keith Brindle 2024