Prospero's
Farewell
by
Mick
Stringer
The goodbyes have been said
mostly sweet
except where on the rim of consciousness
a huddled growl
in a cramped lair
threatens a slipping back
to something brutish
short.
Now he's reached the age
unweighed by rod or book
like vapour from a broken tree
he hopes to spread across a sky
that still has light enough
to bar the night with crimson tones
weaving through violet
deep as lovers' eyes.
He half extends an arm
as if to gather back
the air-miles and the bustling days
the endless cappuccinos
the corporate credit card
but failing slams the car door shut
and hunched over the wheel
like a dull beast in a cave
prays that this farewell will free his soul.
Caliban spits and sniggers on the edge.
Ariel's bloodless lips press on his own.
He has reached the age.
