He bought a fresh loaf
The baker swathed it in a square of paper
pinched at the corners
good to carry under the arm
In the street he smiled
from the depths of his seventy-four years
and praised the arrival of spring.
A new note, this,
since a stroke of mortality
(is it already?)
four years ago
he has touched gingerly
the world he feared to leave
But Sunday hope was there in his eyes
like two cherries out of three
for the jackpot
Emotions out
like products of the soil
delivered through his soul
to the bosom of your own heart
He would come, soon,
to hear us play
as soon as the days were a little longer,
his bones sucking up the damp at evening
Now he lived so near the cemetery
good he could stand in the sun
and let his skull grin through
Now: suddenly,Wednesday
snap your fingers
whole days are gone
when you can remember three score and ten
as a flicker of bird flight among the live oaks
back to boyhood when forever
still included you
Suddenly: it's Wednesday
And he has walked into our past
halted in the midst
of a hope or regret.
Deià, April 1984
I found this in Patrick’s collection called poems.odt.
Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.
What a remarkable gift he had…words, words, words…so beautifully and interestingly and masterfully used.