Reached Across The Centuries

The name on the letterbox has a
poignant familiarity, you knew him
when he rang the classic bells of
verse, when he sang those sweet
etudes in words that reached across
the centuries, a man who pleased
his readers, quenched their thirst,
seduced them with the melodies
that claimed their ears and tamed
a fractious Earth.

For shame that poet doesn’t live here
anymore. The man who’ll answer doesn’t
care for faithfulness, the dishevelled
hair implies a fall from grace, unshaven
face, eyes that stare at distant dreams,
a voice that trembles. He is a lonely man,
wanders aimlessly in shambling gait, he
stares, and waits. The words you want to
say have flown from your mind, the praise,
the flowery phrases teased to ease your

gratitude have gone. “I came…,” you start
to say and cannot carry on, the words
are wrong, the pleasure meant to be is
soured and rancid in your mind. For
heaven’s sake you didn’t know the man
was deaf and blind to geniality. And yet
the beauty of his words still echo clear
and ring in chorus true within your inner ear,
the lines you want to say are settled for
“…to thank you.”
© I.D. Carswell 2007