Old Poet Poem by Sally Evans

He sat, benign and shedding light
of years of kindness in the dim
shenanigan, at a candle end,
a flushed and guttering beacon, guiding poets
among his century's dwindling shades.
Old certainties no longer hung crowns
like awkward haloes over aphorisms,
but doubtful portents on the sidewalk
drove him to temperamental lines.
Preserve us from old men with fountain pens.
Let them go out without dimmer-
switches, let them leave warm darkness
and feminine flower silences,
everything plural about them except
that last sight, when rhythm flickers,
when death is nealy as important
as life, and there is no more ink.

c1990
from Northwords and The Great North Road