By night I can see death stands waiting,
scythe in hand, ready for Time's steady knock.
I know there is wildness in him, baiting
the optimists with awe and shock.
Yet I think he is not cruel or cold,
that he is at the mercy of the same
inexorable clock that haunts the old
marking inevitability's claim.
The footpath in which he stands leads away
to an imagined place beyond my reach.
It may go nowhere and the skies are grey,
the sands have gone - just shingle on the beach.
The thunder may rumble in the distance
but no lightning flashes to show the truth,
and love melts like sweet meringue whilst I dance
limping, out of tune, out of step with youth.
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