All good things, it is said, must go to their end:
As every road is plagued by destination
And every friendship pained for a loving friend,
So all things capable of lapsing, lapse.
We might cure illness, true: but then, perhaps
For life itself there is no medication.
The wave falls back on itself: a ball half-thrown
Faltering at the wrist, a failed last shot.
We take the fist of earth, last thing we own,
Thrown on the oak: we cling to a clod of earth,
Hold tight to clay, for all that clay is worth,
Chain ourselves to shadows we forgot.
But shadows feel no iron, and they grow:
The light draws lower, casting on the crest
Of every wave the coolness that we know
Of every darkening evening. And at last,
Turning to the failed waves of the past,
We break on them, and fall down cold, to rest.
Admittedly, not the happiest poem I have ever written.