I do enjoy writing the odd ramble-poem
When the curtain is hanging half-on-mast
I’ll know these sad but honest truths;
That in the past, my best was better
And that where the hallways echoed
Now they are silent. Silent. Silent.
Silent as the graves of those who trod them.
Is this coincidence?
Sweet Baldur of the Spring was slain
With mistletoe and trickery, his love
Poured through the ruby river of his youth
And though his body never saw the End
Nevertheless his fist was strong and grasped
As fast as moonbeams in the local lake
Unto ideals and bravery and honour.
Speak not of Baldur’s beauty, reader,
Do not mention how his cheeks were red
Nor how his hair was long and brown.
This did not make him better than the best.
The fires had yet to fade from Baldur’s pyre
‘Ere grief and pain took all creation.
Frigg wept for son laid low, and Hel saw with amaze
The dead a-weeping in their grey-hamed rows.
For mischief only would not weep
One thing in all creation.
When I am old, I will not say my beauty’s fled
Nor bring as memory the darts of years –
No! The world cares not and nor should I.
My best is in the past
And age has nothing to do with it.
The hallways no longer echo, friend.
None weep. I stretch into the greyness
And those whom I loved most are dead.
Would that Baldur could meet me in that place
So I may know if it is just me
Who misses Frigg and sees
Sees with the blind man’s desperate sight;
Creation would not weep were I to die
And heart has turned to ash.
Reader, my best will soon be in the past.
Mourn it, for I will never be done
Mourning its cause.