POEM - Whatever

To those of us
who do grow older,
slapped around the face
with life lessons, whilst still
knowing nothing of its true purpose
other than, that ageing happens 
with no democracy, and stealthily
first to the body, then
before the mind becomes too encrusted
in wistful forgetfulness
the whole edifice is abandoned,
like a rusty old banger
in a rough field of wild grass,
visibly disassembling itself
in full view of the A 140
other people look on, drive by,
turn the unfolded corner
of a personality into a piece of origami
in resemblance neat, crisply edged
truth is elderly, collected, stratified like a bin of litter
from which nostalgia liberates
whatever it can, to be whatever it can
of whatever has been lost to memory, painting
new facsimiles
barely remembered proxies
of whatever was thought about a personality,
who this was, brought grimly to earth
with its gristle and perfume of putrefaction
it's for those of us who do grow older, to gnaw upon
until we too are all but gone away
and on our very final day, the dawn and the post
arrive too late for them to be opened
gone beyond concrete imagination
beyond the blank outline of a body
the focus and vehicle
for, Ah Bless them! so
broken now beyond repair, go on
pull down that hat over your eyes
lest you glimpse too much
in the uninhabited gaze of a chill crevised face.
the mind reclining - beyond anger or regret.
the patination of liver spots
form oracles written on the scrolls of skin
lean into this mute sage
and read your I Ching
for this day, everyday
whatever is after.

Written August 2022 by
Stephen Lumb