We wait for each other, death and I,
devout in our own ways, he watching
with seriousness and patient respect.
He holds his scythe and waits for the ripeness
(a ripeness he knows far better than me),
when our energies fail and the colours
have faded from the landscape of our life.
There are times of wildness when he must swing
his blade in an orgy of destruction
taking young and old at random it seems
but still he believes and holds no life cheap.
He has no smile to treat the tragedy
of the rotting badger by the roadside
or the grey skin of our mortal struggle
with cruel indifference - he greets us
all by name and with quiet attention.
He knows the truth that lives end unfinished,
wisdom sparks no thunderclaps and love melts
like sweet meringue contending with hunger.
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