David Lewis Paget (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)
At Journey's End
I'll not lie down, nor sit and wait
The black-draped barge to float on by,
Nor offer up my throat, like ears of corn
To wait the sickle sigh,
Should death's bleak hooded figure call
He'll find that I have quit the town
And left no forwarding address
That he might use to track me down.
One step ahead, I'll change my name
Then dye my hair a rich dark brown,
Or failing that, I'll shave my head
And raise my brows, an inch around.
I'll grow a beard, or cut it off
If I have grown a beard before
Then take to sailing out from ports
Where Death has sallied forth once more.
I'll dress my woman in long boots
And tie her hair up out of sight,
Then we will slink from town to village
Making love by day, not night.
We'll sleep in hay ricks, fields and barns
While one keeps watch, each turn about,
So if his hood should cause alarms
We'll both be gone by morning light.
We'll trek up mountains, hills and valleys
Everywhere that he's just been,
We'll tail him as he travels onward
Scything through each village green,
And when he corners us at last
We'll drink long from a stirrup cup
And cheat him from his final scene
By leaving life, before he's up.
6 March 2009
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