This is your home now.

These are your friends.

 

The music had died,

sat underneath like smoke

– momentarily –

 

but stole away with the ghosts.

It must have been so quiet.

 

The violin clattered

as it fell on the boards.

 

The others were cold to you,

glanced at things

just out of sight.

 

They sat you down gently,

told you to drink your tea

and, of course, to try once more.

 

Perhaps tomorrow,

perhaps tonight.

 

 

 

Going ALL the way over to the dark side with this. It’s got some competition, but is to me the darkest poem I wrote. I don’t know whether it reads like it, but to me these people seem not just to have something happened to them, but to have had something done to them. Some kind of punishment, not simply old age, regret or decay. I guess it could be a reflection on the way old age is perceived by others, but I wasn’t conscious of that (or of the issue at all) at that time.

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