Harvest Time
“O for ten years, that I may overwhelm
Myself in poesy; so may I do the deed
That my own self has to itself decreed”.
(John Keats: Sleep and Poetry)
For yet another year my hair, (turning to grey
More than a decade now), has failed to throw its long
Regenerations in thick swathes to thatch my skull
In vigorous profusion. It still grows, less strong
And finer than before; but from this silvering sign
I recognise that I have passed beyond the bloom
Of hearty Summer into Autumn’s blown decline.
My strength and stamina diminish with my hair;
Things are beyond me that were once within my scope.
Angina bites, eyes dim, olfaction fades, ears dull,
Teeth moulder. Such a ruin seems to blight the hopes
Of youth. Yet, still, my mind maintains its deathless dreams
And tells me that my physical decay is not
So much a tragedy as part of Nature’s schemes.
All living things must die, the greatest and the least,
When their allotted periods have reached their terms;
Hence, when the indications beacon age, the wise
Make preparations for resolving their concerns.
So I must face the coming Winter of my years
With resolution and a firm intent to take
Advantage of my mind’s unbated souvenirs.
As onwards to my Solstice I advance, my aim
Must be to concentrate my energies to sift
The fruits of memory and store them safe from harm
So that posterity may profit from my thrift.
Envolument must be my tithe-barn to preserve
My poetry, (bequeathed to those who’ll follow me),
To nourish and sustain the future they deserve.
To work without delay then, lest the frosts of Winter come
Before my Autumn harvest has been safely gathered home.
