General   (General discussion, talk about anything.)

LATE


I am late,
of late.
Not wanting
to meet the deadline,
I hesitate,
and sit back in my chair.
There,
I rest in the morning black,
before the boiler comes back,
on...
The rain rattles the kitchen window,
and the autumn tea lights flicker.
I am still here,
as the old leaves fall-
four years longer than my father;
four years further on.
What could I tell him?
Or would I rather
imagine that it wasn't to be,
after all.
And my dear mother?
Her legacy lives on,
in my warm-milk breakfast bowl
of honey and oats,
and her Saturday gift
of a ten shilling note,
now a shiny ten pounds on the window ledge.
The children have gone:
their returns,
are more seldom than oft.
What can I reveal? The inner truth?
The inner turmoil of a life nearly spent?
What can I possibly tell them?
They go about their business
with traditions handed down,
that they are happy to keep
and to celebrate as their own,
coming back less frequently
and then only by phone.

I am late.
And now life comes to me
in unanswered messages
that are lost in their transit.
Words of want,
and dreams of desire;
visions of love
never to aspire,
to the road chosen and traveled upon.
So who is watching over me?
I wonder,
as the train tickets tumble
from the red machine,
and the girl on the platform
tells me stand back behind the yellow line.

I am fine.
But I am late,
of late,
and now to old age,
that embraces me
and catches my eye:
the reflection that I never wanted-
refusing to raise a smile.
And yet my train pushes on,
mile after mile;
taking me to where I want to go:
the hills of home are replaced
by the low
lands, and the derelict
foundries from another time.
Over old bridges still intact;
and the whole sweep
of middle England to view,
returning to the childhood memories
and the places I knew.
But surely the fingers will slow
and come to a stop.
And the clock will tick no more.
Then, I will reach my destination
in the realisation
that
I cannot be late
anymore...



Jarvo 2019