An
old man, his mind lost, scatters dust. Then sweeps it up and scatters
it again.
He
calls himself Time.
When
black-cloaked Death enters, he stamps his broom and shouts
'Time
Please! Drink up and leave, or Death will take you.'
But
that moment is not yet – Death comes in the darkest hour -
and
so Time sweeps and whistles, whistles and scatters.
Dust
settles, dust flies. The Half-way Inn is full.
Life,
an angry red-haired woman, is flinging flames;
Cackling
at each dart that falls short of the mark.
Small
flames lick but do not take hold. Men leap but do not burn.
At
the farther end of the room, gold-crowned Fortune, with Chance at her
side, deals out cards, with a droll expression.
Who
will have luck? Who will have none? Whose fate will she decide?
In
a near well-lit corner Philosophy, an inconstant sprite, is holding
forth.
Regulars
drift to her and drift away; some newcomers stay to listen longer.
One
rises to his feet as if to challenge her,
when
a wizened man urgently whispers to him:
Disagree
and on your way you'll be to the Lords and Hounds of Hell!
Philosophy,
whose eyes and ears are sharp, notices his countenance pale
and
watches him hastily retreat to where men sing and don't chatter.
Peace
sits amongst these merry gentlemen;
their
wild carousing a trial to her poor nerves.
She
shakes, she trembles. She shrinks away from their carolled words.
Her
mind screaming: Peace! I long for peace. Peace At Last!
As
too does a man's, not far from her, who has lately taken a second
wife. His first not dead.
Her
name is Sorrow. A frail young woman who stands beside or behind him,
and
who will only speak when spoken to. Her eyes downcast, her hands
clasped.
Though
sometimes, if he swears to part from her,
she'll
appear in front of him on bended knee and beseechingly touch his
chin.
He
then gives in; and gives leave for Sorrow to remain and shroud his
nights.
As
his wife, Wisdom, waits at home, for she cannot force him to be wise.
And
as patient Knowledge, in the shadows, waits to be his third.
Then
Sorrow, at last, might depart, to become the wife of another.
Or
she might instead sit beside Regret in her ill-lit corner.
Regret
who has wept and wept but now her eyes are dry.
Regret
has died. Death will soon arrive to take her.
Even
now he's on his way...A hush falls, as the outside darkness thickens.
And
brings the sound of infants crying, and their nursemaid, Nature,
shrieking.
As
she gives all those in her charge evil dreams.
The
infants, in the dark, cry for light, for light, light.
Which
God, at war with Nature, will not grant.
The
door creaks and on the threshold stands dark Death,
with
brown-hooded Doubt behind him, and behind him the bright-faced angel,
Comfort.
Fear
tonight is missing.
'Time
Please!' shouts Time, and stamps his broom. Death's cue to enter.
And
for paying customers, visitors to the Halfway Inn, to drain their
glasses,
leave
a coin, and shake Time warmly by the hand.
Only
dry-eyed Regret has walked towards Death, for her turn has come to
again be led away,
and
spare, as she has spared before, a man, or two, or three.
Picture credit: Theory, Sir Joshua Reynolds (source: WikiArt).
Inspired by Tennyson's
In Memoriam A. H. H., written November-December 2019
