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Poems I'd like to have written >
Geriatric
by R
S Thomas
What
god
is proud
of this
garden
of dead flowers, this underwater
grotto of humanity,
where limbs wave in invisible
currents, faces
drooping
on dry stalks, voices clawing
in a last desperate
effort
to retain hold? Despite withered
petals, I recognise
the species: Charcot, Meniere,
Alzheimer. There are
no gardeners
here, caretakers only
of reason overgrown
by confusion. This body once,
when it was in bud,
opened to love's kisses. These eyes,
cloudy with rheum,
were clear pebbles that love's rivulet
hurried over. Is this
the best Rabbi Ben Ezra
promised? I come away
comforting myself, as I can,
that there is another
garden, all dew and fragrance,
and that these are
the brambles
about
it
we are caught in,
a sacrifice prepared
by a torn god to a love fiercer
than we can
understand.
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