Compline At Sixty Poem by Bernard Kennedy

Nunc Dimittus,
at last? I can recall
the evening tailed procession
with censor and incense,
most dead or compline of life.
In the evening we recall,
the brightness of the football field,
anxiety about Nicomachean ethic
and Plato Symposium,
Aquinas proofs,
and Freud's hidden things.
The hill gets climbed and
I have baptised and buried
and given travellers many tenpence,
and sang the Alleluia chorus of Handel
and waited,
and the waiting is
the metaphor
from compline to complan?