The Book Of Numbers Poem by David Lewis Paget

These cheque book eyes that peer on out
With fifty four long years in train
Would beg the question, steeped in doubt:
‘Are balances brought home the same? ’

Are books of columns kept somewhere
With costs and profits to each name,
Does some laborious clerk inscribe
Each fall from grace, each cry of pain?

And is there some huge reference book,
A million pages long that gives
A code to score each passing thought,
To digitise each man that lives?

A ten for love that long survives
Its primal urge, a minus four
For each divorce, and minus three
For every child brought down, of course.

And how would grief be costed out?
A point for every tear or sigh,
Or nine to cover hearts of lead
That freeze in pain, but cannot cry.

For hope, ambition, faith and need
Are these the same for every man,
Or do the rich regain the creed
While poor men spill their lives like sand.

These cheque book eyes that peer on out
With fifty four long years in train
Appraise the wreckage of my life:
‘Are balances brought home the same? ’

17 February 1999