A much earlier poem on the "what's it all about?" theme is "The Hedgehog in the Garden," written in July 1980. As such it is not a "summation" or a "looking back" because it was written by a much younger man; it's more of a speculation. It was posted on 14 July 2012 and is linked here.
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The days of old were never cold,
The sun shone on and on,
And heat haze simmered on both coast and wold
In glassy light glints never done.
Thoughtless we are of days as lived:
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
What’s left when age has closely sieved
All loves and memories
Are glows like sun’s warm shafts in leafage weaved
(But aches at hands we failed to seize):
Days are like fruit now fresh, now bruised,
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
Ruses and lusts, perhaps excused
For that’s what lovers do,
Enjoined a trysted life of bodies fused,
Of whelps and duties, laughings too:
Like rueful scarecrows are our days,
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
Even ill-luck, a smash, a blaze,
Much worse, a dear one’s death,
In time will cultivate our coping ways,
For breath is better than no breath:
Our days can soothe the pain they cause,
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
Seek what’s intense then, licking sores,
Live as the creatures live,
Hourly aware of chance’s gifts and claws,
The “now” which only Time can give;
For soon days’ truths will sink to one:
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
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© September 2024
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The days of old were never cold,
The sun shone on and on,
And heat haze simmered on both coast and wold
In glassy light glints never done.
Thoughtless we are of days as lived:
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
What’s left when age has closely sieved
All loves and memories
Are glows like sun’s warm shafts in leafage weaved
(But aches at hands we failed to seize):
Days are like fruit now fresh, now bruised,
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
Ruses and lusts, perhaps excused
For that’s what lovers do,
Enjoined a trysted life of bodies fused,
Of whelps and duties, laughings too:
Like rueful scarecrows are our days,
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
Even ill-luck, a smash, a blaze,
Much worse, a dear one’s death,
In time will cultivate our coping ways,
For breath is better than no breath:
Our days can soothe the pain they cause,
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
Seek what’s intense then, licking sores,
Live as the creatures live,
Hourly aware of chance’s gifts and claws,
The “now” which only Time can give;
For soon days’ truths will sink to one:
You never know they’re good until they’re gone.
====================
© September 2024
