Old Man

I am an old man now who fashions
the night's stars into horoscopes
to beguile, fumbling for explanation.
I have finished my reaons: they are as old
as my years that never end, each year
louder than the one before
like the sound of the night owl

whose flight rests in silent majesty,
now a long descent into quietude.
This has been a long time coming,
watching the flowers rise and then
fall away, the earth removing
itself from vision.
And what is left but memory

that has no concern for anything
other than the gentle reminders
of something having gone
or been lost or maybe
simply died?
There might have been murders.
My eyes no longer glint,

there is no expression
on my face in the mirror,
the delicate act of remembrance
forgotten and turned away,

no solace in images
eighty years on.
Soon the moon will name me
and then, well then I shall seek
the pity of space,
my reasons here over,
lost to a memory

too difficult to share,
too difficult even to know,
my life's expression sounded
like a love song out of time.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on his poem, John Cornwall will be glad to hear from you.