Notes for a Meeting

Our ends, through war, disease or accident;
when in our prime or old or as a child;
in pain or peace, suddenly or forewarned,
are generally not at our command.

Instead you are a law unto yourself,
visiting as you please. Last night I heard
you stumble to my door, then veer away
to knock elsewhere for no apparent reason.

For sure I’ll hear your shambling steps again.
It’s said the only certainty in life
is death; and bible stories notwithstanding,
our consolation is: the race survives.

But think again, and face the truth that mocks
our self-obsession: life on earth will pass.
History ends unnoticed and untold,
with no-one left to know that we were here.

The adventitious fruits of evolution,
requiring neither purpose nor design;
passing adornments of an aimless cosmos;
is not the only sane reaction madness?

Except that we are where we are because
our home shaped us to fit; we’re custom built
to cherish and enjoy this time and place,
the home-made hell and paradise around us.

We live and feel where future turns to past,
like surfers poised between two elements,
riding the chosen wave until it breaks:
often a thrilling too soon ending passage.

We’d like to try again: no chance! We get
one wave, we ride it ’til we fall, that’s all.
Some argue one-way time is a delusion;
of course, that’s just their madness showing through.

Events march on with timestamps ever-increasing
along a path that takes shape step by step.
A ratchet keeps the clock from turning back;
to slow it down, let every heartbeat count.

A book, a cup of tea, a serenade
sung from a gold-leafed tree by a lonely blackbird,
the flash of damsel flies above the water,
and you content, beside me in the garden.

It’s here, the only paradise we need;
home-made I’ll grant, but none the worse for that.
So caller take your time, and when you come
expect a curse, be ready for a fight.

It’s just about the timing; no dispute
about the dismal content of your message,
it’s written in our genome. Though as yet
we can’t read every word, we get the drift.

And in my dreams the message is mutated;
through human intervention life extends.
Caller, your work tails off, you spend more time
at home and walk more slowly as we thrive.

No flight of fancy nor mere wishful thinking,
unlike the weak and fearful love of gods,
my clear belief puts faith where it belongs:
in stubborn, loving, curious humankind.