If this day were to be my last,
I would die loving
the long shadows of autumn
as light filters through the apricot tree;
celebrating the chattering flight of a fantail;
rejoicing in the architectural splendour
of a Bach partita, arch after musical arch
The tomorrow when I will be dead,
there still will be a lilting blackbird's song,
the iridescence of a spider's web
but I will not feel the lack.
It's now, when the day's last sunlight
flames horse chestnuts against the darkening hill;
there's the yawning ache at a remembered loss.
Tomorrow will be different.
The trajectory of my death
has changed over time.
Ten years ago, the idea of death
was spiritual, focusing me
on the beauty of the moment;
tree lined shadows,
conversation with a fantail,
Bach's grand pinnacle of sound.
Five years later, even though
I had one tentative foot
across the threshold,
I was still introvertedly
gazing back at the moment I had left;
a spider's web, blackbird's song.
But now, five years further on
with death shadowing my every footstep,
I have been forced
to face that I was afraid.
In my fear I relegated
my friends to the outer suburbs
when they really belonged
on the main thoroughfare.
If tonight were to be my very last,
I would be desolate
at leaving behind
a lifetime of friends.