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"An Old Man and his Grandson" by Domenico Ghirlandaio in the Louvre |
Now before anyone panics at the subject matter of my previous piece and this one, do not fear. I am not anticipating my imminent demise (although I am no less aware of my mortality than someone of my age and ailments should be), but I am reflecting on how we should respond to our twilight years. I do this both in the light of a series of funerals that I have recently conducted or attended at which the poems cannibalised here were read by me or others, and the attitude of some of my elders recently. Some are a joy to be in the presence of despite the challenges they face, sharing their insights, experience and encouragement with grace and humility (some in a way they didn't when they were younger), and others who are less of a joy to encounter. There are usually multiple reasons for this, and I hope I do not respond to them any less graciously than I do to others. But I equally hope that I do not behave in the same way if I am blessed with the same longevity... I need to start practising now...
We grow old, as they that left grow not old:
Age wearies us, and the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
How will they remember us?
As those who walked gently into that good night,
Or those who burned and raved at close of day;
Raging not against the dying of the light,
But at those who will continue to walk in it.
The clocks may be stopped with our demise,
But time rolls relentlessly on with oceans’ wave.
We are not actually asleep, in the next room,
Or whatever metaphor we use to sooth.
Death is not nothing. But it need not be hell.
And life is something to be cherished and encouraged.
So that when they bring out the coffin and mourners come,
They may weep at our going and smile at our being.
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