Poem

An old man in a young world;
Old, eaten grey-beard crusted with by-products of life-plans.
Will no-one listen to him?
Thirsting, stricken groping among the groups,
Mumbling as a rejected life is revived;
Not even the earth. . . .
Those terrifying altar-shapes of trees
At night; The hooded, capped hills, so complete;
Serene disdain. Will no-one,
Not even she, the earth....?
Thirsting, wandering death.
How they talk! Will they never stop?
Cannot an old man be granted his mirage?
Must his plan-folds for ever
Half-dissolve, then congeal,
A sprinkling, fermentation?
Grant old whimpering grey-beard his solemn ritual!
Grant him his final death-draught.

—Pat Wilson.