Most of my poetry falls into two categories – sentimental nonsense, or tongue-in-cheek silliness. This is one of the few that I’m genuinely proud of. It conjures images of minstrels in smoky taverns; sawdust strewn floors, cleansed with beer, and smelling of desperation; and poorly dressed peasants rolling their eyes at the whimsy of travelling musicians.
The voice of the singer is faded away,
His tongue is all shrivelled and black.
Lost to the ravage of time and decay,
It is gone and will never come back.
The knees of the supplicant, brittle and frail,
Though once she was pure and devout.
Like all those before her, faith did fail.
She has passed into darkness and doubt.
The hands of the healers have fallen still,
They moulder and crumble to naught.
No longer to minister broken or ill,
They have vanished, as all things ought.
The heart of the lover that once was true,
Was ever so quick to take spark –
Burned with a fire as all hearts do –
Now, consumed by the gathering dark.
The eyes of the lonely will ne’er more cry,
The tracks of their tears are all gone.
They stare empty and lifeless, cold and dry
Where once all their misery shone.
And now as we come to the end of all days
Dying as all things must
To be lost to the ravage of time and decay
And to blow on the winds as dust.