The Poem
A man still light of foot, but ageing, took
An hour to drink his glass, his quiet tongue
Danced to such cheerful slander.
He sipped and swallowed with a scathing smile,
Tapping a polished toe.
His sober nod withheld assent.
When he died I saw him twice.
Once as he used retire
On one last murmured stabbing little tale
From the right company, tucking in his scarf.
And once down by the river, under wharf
Lamps that plunged him in and out of light,
A priest-like figure turning, wolfish-slim,
Quickly aside from pain, in a bodily plight.
To note the oiled reflections chime and swim.
|A man still light of foot, but ageing, took |Although old, still agile |
|An hour to drink his glass, his quiet tongue |Awareness from very start of ageing process |
|Danced to such cheerful slander.