A Passage Of Age

I have fallen a long way,
Taken with me impossible lovers
Whose improbable souls cast
Sinew and bones and flesh
Onto the parchment of my life.
And I am gratified, faithful, human
In the sad tale of years of those lovers gone
Whose hauntings have brought me now to middle-age
From which all things seem clear
And untroubled, bright as the face
Of the sun.

Nothing now in times' hands touches me.
I collect my history, turn to you
New love in a whole world of satisfaction
That covers us who languish there,
Impossible lovers drowned out
As the red of your mouth harbours emotion.

And I, forgetting those torn by my hand,
Feel the warmth of accomplishment.
Yet if not I then someone must, turning
Outward to the urgencies of your smiles
That have no guilt but deliberations
Of light.

And someone's pale hand
Must comfort you; someone's
Mind must howl in your skin;
Someone's skull must contain
You like wind, like the artefacts
Of Troy; someone must reach your soul
And all other souls that have
Worn me down to this moment,
These hours, these days, these seconds;

Someone - or I -  must write these poems

John Cornwall

If you have any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.