Graeme Hetherington: Memento Mori at Seventy-Eight

Memento Mori at Seventy-Eight

So clearly head of table is

The loudly tick-tocking wall-clock

At shoulder-height above it that

No one else thinks of sitting there,

Afraid of what it represents,

As on and on, insatiably,

It chomps away at life, its food,

A noisily ill-mannered guest

We don’t recall inviting, but

Who can’t be easily ignored,

A bully-boy who dominates

With monologues on death and won’t

Allow me any peace at meals,

Staring rudely until I hear

“Begone, you’ve not much left of me

In which to write a timeless poem!”

Saint Teresa of Avila

(After some stone reliefs depicting her good works)

In traveller’s cloak and hood, her staff

With leaves a simple Tree of Life,

Teresa is seen going forth,

Humble, kindly, happy and sad,

Determined to nourish with love

A land that’s resistant to change,

That’s arrogant, cynical, cruel,

Defeated and turning the knife in the wound.

A lone starving dog limps howling across

A riverbed dry as a bone.

Graeme Hetherington