Wednesday, 8 June 2011

Old Eyes

He's in frames big enough for a child to climb
and being long-sighted his eyes loom large
lids like giant moths fan lenses,

cooling perhaps the thoughts
which overheat his mottled corneas,
constricting the pupil who’s learned too much.

What longed for return to easy times,
before lines linked nose and chin?
what devastating dreams of days when skin
less grey stretched taught across that
sacrificial skull?

It’s no secret; time makes an enemy of our cells
and when the dance of summer days is done
we’re left to search the dimming light
for children climbing, 

their sharp eyes not sharp enough see
the place they’re climbing to;
the wise and wizened eyrie of the old.