Knight-Errant

A well-thumbed book         like a well-thumbed life,         "whilst you walk this earth"         yet nothing is "afoot",         as so many small boys         throwing stones through the funeral parlour         glass door.         A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting         across the face of the multitude is terrible         algebra running into unfathomable sums.         "Doing your sums", my grade school teacher         used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper,         learning lessons in a strange stamina         sort of way.         One of the multitude died last night &         is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.         Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek         at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his         last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious         even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour         to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the         month to go packing. Finale.         "Going down to the sea in ships". Death as voyage escaping         prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses         into the apparent.         One sees a lot by the moon.         Crisp, fall air and         leaves yellowing         frightened from their wits         to end their brief, balloon walk. Such         faraway faces of Eve and a boat         moored to a dock.         Crossing streets -         a gray, fusillade church,         knight-errant, breaks the night.         Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds.         Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the         stained glass window I see her. She seems         to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through         at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions?         Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating         are the mourners. Dashing thru the sleet in brief poignancy;         shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting         what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow.         Hardly analogous to being "called home" or "going to their         reward".         More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies         and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's         cork.         This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist         collecting,         watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a         glade.         The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that         makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black         funeral vestments for me.         Standing close to the clock and thinking.         A luxury bought with time,         in every evening weeping in the corner.