Michael

On a late October day,

He set back the kitchen clock,

Sat and took stock

Of what was to happen.

Soon he entered the time

In which needs continued

But no one came.

If one reached out,

The other retreated,

Repelled by nature’s grip

On a body not yet old,

Yet young no longer.

What consolations could the future hold?

He considered Michael

Whose vision tunnelled

As his mind expanded

Over the past, the dead,

The lonely and the lovely

Men and women,

Dawn coming up

Over Darjeeling

Fifty years before.

Memories pierced him still.

The wind had tugged

His shaky frame,

Spun him aside,

Yet he laughed though he

Could walk no more the hills,

Soon see no more

Than what had been.

The other watched his lingering

And saw the shimmer

Of a day still seen,

Still felt and still desired.

The skull showed through,

But beauty hung there,

Moving fast into the blue.

Look intent at anything,

Look long enough

In the tell-tale window,

Find beauty in the eye,

The face within the scene.

Twilight morning,

Throbbings of noon-tide,

Dusk descending,

Life swelled, his own,

Or another’s; time

Found its compensations,

Caught grey dawn’s beauty,

Wrinkled into words,

On the page, in the air.

The common day called,

The milk stood at the door,

A principle of light began to act

Against the growing cataract.

©Terry Hodgson2025