Edward Storey
Eighty-seven and failing
All the hills of his life
were gathered into that small room
where he sat in a corner chair
close to the fire, his hands
colder than stone, his mind
dwelling on days when legs
took him all over Radnorshire.
Now the lambs penned in his sleep
grazed only in summer.
When asked his age, he’d say -
‘eighty-seven and failing’.
Not that he talked much;
the phlegm of those winters
was an impediment.
So he slept on, his thoughts
fading, the fire failing to warm
either memory or limb.
He was so still, not a vein twitched,
and when his daughter said -
‘are you all right?’ - even earth paused,
waited for his reply.
Page(s) 61
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