Monday, 18 May 2009


Two weeks before the old man died, the council ordered the removal of the front fence of the old man's house.

One week before the old man died, the large tree that was pushing the fence over was cut down.

And on the night the old man died, the howling wind and driving rain tore a hole through the old man's yacht, a vessel for a long time anchored in the shadow of it's prime, obediently awaiting the return of its loving master.

Now we look around the yard, sad with the sights from another time. The rusted relics of a man's prime, now all but a distant memory.

The rubble of old ideas, buried by five thousand days and nights. Great things, never built.

Grand plans and intentions that drifted away on a tide of Alzheimer's Disease.

So now we must respectfully wield the broom.

This ship has sailed the last leg of its adventure, and through all the tears and longing we begin to see again...

...that this world is for the living.




At 19 May 2009 at 19:21 , Blogger the projectivist said...

great bit of writing, MrManAtThePub.

At 20 May 2009 at 14:12 , Blogger Kath Lockett said...

Aw... that's poetry, that is.

At 21 May 2009 at 13:17 , Blogger eleanor bloom said...

'Tis for the living... but special people are still living in a way whilst we think so fondly of them (would say live on in our hearts but i'm never *sniffle* that soppy.)


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