Inklings

Dusk come in,

against the snow

the coal is black.



Memories fettered,

with winter

In my heart.



Age gathers in -

the destination

we’re travelling to.



Across the Fens

thunder sounds,

the sense of loss.



When lots are thrown,

the fall of grace

seems small.



like the sun,

death cannot be

looked at directly.



A shallow life,

too soon lost

by its leaving.



The dying moment,

easily confused

with a stopped clock.



Life, then death,

the soft blink

of an eyelid



And our dreams

unrevealed

until forgotten.



Where shall they be,

the living now dead,

if not in memory?



And who’s to say

once we’ve gone away,

what will stay?



We are left with

enough love with

which to grieve.



Lives lived then dead,

cannot count so much,

as lives now living.



And when all’s said,

we’ll have a coffin

for our bed.



So, poets do as

poets must, until

time converts all to dust.





© D G Moody 2023

Image, by Helmut Liebelt, courtesy of Altphoto's.