Ninety something winters in that chest with
the rhythm of in and out brought to the
stage before exit in a standard bed.

We form our slow arc around the bed,
daughter, son, the grandchildren and their children,
and a child who has no word yet for this,
each of us a small voice at the edge of oblivion.

Death has taken off its hood. Sits. Staring.
Waits with the good manners of a neighbour
coming to collect a borrowed thing.

But he who has always savoured life is
not willing to give up his ownership soon.
Not stubbornness. Something older.
The body’s own insistence that this
is mine, mine alone, mine to give up
at a time when it says—no more!

So, we keep the watch in a seat at this
performance, watching his gentle war,
witnessing the shadow slowly take back
this borrowed thing and then…then…

 

31/8/2026