Slipping Away

How oft the myths beside us crept,
Once told by winds through crag and thyme,
Amongst the goats where echoes slept,
Till concrete drowned their ancient rhyme.

We were too old to understand
That fewer years could bring us mirth,
Of tales murmured in cellar’s land,
By grandsires wise in life and earth.

How oft the past returned to mind,
That strange, small past when elders spoke,
With candles dim, and hopes resigned,
Of Rome’s great empire turned to smoke.

We longed for wine, and knew the taste,
For we were of the age to crave it;
And now I’d rather rest embraced
By pillows than a cask of dark wit.

Yet how I think and how I weep,
Returning to that brick-bound keep,
‘Mid crimson scythes and muddy sweep,
Without the fear of soil too deep.

We had time enough before us, true,
Yet knew not how it would depart,
How school would steal the days we knew,
And leave so little in our grasp.

How heavy lay the mahogany,
Upon the snow-stained cobbled way,
As solemn faces passed by me
With briefest nods, and no words to say.

How much you knew in elder days,
Without the learning of great bards,
Building homes and mem’ries by gaze,
Ignoring priests’ fanciful shards.

We had a wealth of diamonds raw,
Polished only by patient hands,
Yet now I see them distant, far,
And miss them more than time withstands.

Perhaps the old thus feed their flame:
With wounds that ache, and fate’s decree.
Now in the mirror, brushing shame,
I see the old man I’ve come to be.

Mahogany seems a fitting choice,
Were I to ask you now, somehow,
To lend your bike and give me voice,
To pick the casket we should vow.

How plain the stone you chose to bear,
No farewell carved, no flourish dear,
While others flaunt their statues fair,
You chose a gray slab, which I revere.

We had a life that seemed so dull,
Yet now it stirs this melancholy,
As on your moss I rest my skull,
And watch our days slip, slowly, wholly.