LAST JOURNEY

He walked the lengthy square with his head earthward tilted,

his steps were faint and weak, as through the streets he wilted,

and all who looked at him stood aside, without thinking,

and some did say: “In truth, he sure must have been drinking!”

Another with concern his head did shake, then saying:

“He would best dig a hole in readiness, to stay in.”

It was an autumn day, and on the grey sky trailing

clouds made their rolling way, as the wind’s woeful wailing

blew down the boulevard and in the lanterns rattled,

and folk would think that day some snowflakes would be scattered.

The man went in the park, where, in swept brown leaves swirling

the wind was revelling, through the bare branches whirling,

he looked across the park, at the clouds blackened, dreary,

and breathed a sigh resigned, and slowly walked on, weary.

Now ‘cross his sallow face a pallor spread uneasy,

into the hospital he shuffled, sighing wheezy.

To the physician then: “A craftsman I am, lowly,

whose life has ever been a struggle, wretched solely —”

““What’s that to do with me?””

“I’m dying” said the weakling.

The wise man, cold, replied: ““Indeed, one has that inkling.””

“Tomorrow, or today, I’ll pass, my three bairns leaving

and my wife, six months since fate’s bitter bile receiving,

this half year I’ve been ill; my wife’s tears bring a little,

scarce alms to pay for rent, two days a week food brittle,

our home unheated, cold, and barely ought for cover,

everything has been sold that value could recover —”

““So why then come to me, for charity here crying? ””

“Sir, I have heard it said the dead you’re fond of buying,

for, they say, five gold pieces if you can find the takers —

that way I’d save my wife the cost of undertakers,

and get the children fed… today a token, humble…

and the next day… here’s writ’, sir, my address and number”…

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

‘Tis evening. Snow. Somewhere, in poor embankment housing

one tiny room, a stove, and huddled by it dozing

three children sit, their Pa some while now silent lying,

and Ma, to meet his wish, has gone white bread a-buying.

The children happily warmed by the glowing embers,

now the eyes of the smallest light up as he remembers

— his father’s little boy — and from his pocket, grubby,

a paper twist of sweets he takes out, hand stretched, stubby,

his brothers offering and explanation giving:

“Daddy gave these to me, when he came home this evening…”