White, yes, pale with the pallor of old timbers,
Thistle-stalks, shells, the extreme pallor of starlight —
It is the almond-tree flourishing,
An image of Age in the Book of Ecclesiastes.
Premonitions, like visitors turning the door-handle,
Cry out, ‘It’s us. It’s only us.’
And I, opening the door from the other side, reply
‘Of course. You are expected.’
To memory I say: ‘You must be disciplined.’
To hands: ‘Do not tremble. Be still.’
To bones: ‘Do not ache. Remain flexible.’
To ears: ‘Do not be affrighted,
It is only the voice of the bird.’
To eyes I say: ‘Be faithful. Stay with me.
Do not, looking out of the window, be darkened.’
Yes, it is as I have always been led to believe:
Premonitions, recognitions, the need for acceptance.
The almond-tree shall flourish, and the grass-hopper shall be a burden
It is all in the twelfth chapter of Ecclesiastes.
