September 26

Today would have been the birthday of T S Eliot and I just happened to be at a lecture tonight on his work. Came home and wrote a very quick, and probably poor, poem in his memory. You may spot the obvious references to some of his work. I may one day spend some proper time make this a more worthy dedication. 

 

The day passes

but another year is not added

for three score years and ten and two

no more for you who lay so still

beneath the sheet of earth.

 

Drawn over you

the wasteland does not count

any longer from your birth;

no years add to the passing tale

of tears which baptise the stone in earth impaled.

 

Were you ever young

or always the old man stripped of hands

that could then grasp at guns?

Non-combatant in anything

but words to capture worlds.

 

The quartets formed

under fire watched skies

the giddiness of arriving

at the end of your beginning

the poet no longer aging.

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