He called it many things, the hand of time;
A "bloody tyrant" reaping with its scythe.
And like the hawks that circled overhead
Laid claim to life even if he were dead.
And I have measured it that self same hand:
In life, in epitaph and infant death;
And thinking on what was and might have been,
Have marvelled that I should be here at all.
And now my body, slavish, lags behind;
The tigerish sinews they are wearing thin.
And still I boast that I am well preserved;
And overlook the medical hors-d'oeuvre.
For like the pendulum moving to and fro,
The paths are many I have still to go,
Knowing it was not me who set the springs,
That time and motion - they are celestial things.
______________
© Cormac McCloskey
References
Shakespeare.
Song: The Three Ravens, in which the "faithful hawks" guard the dead body of the knight from the ravens: birds of prey
"In life, in epitaph ...", my own poems
"tigerish" my birthday coinciding with Chinese New Year: the year of the tiger
"hors-d'oeuvre" the appetiser or medications that set me up for the day.
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