B~At Night As You Lay Sleeping II

At night as you lay sleeping,
I lay watchful close beside you,
in a landscape grey and shapeless,
picturing how Death might overtake me.

It's not as if I've had no warning.
I have this trouble with my heart.
Tonight I feel a pricking in my legs and arms.
Maybe I've been riding one too many nightmares.
Maybe I should rest my tired imagination.
Maybe this is just a false alarm.

The first time I saw Death was at a rich man's party;
don't ask me how I got invited,
Although I don't do witty conversation,
I often catch things clever people miss.
Somewhere in the corner of my vision,
I caught Death about his business,
discreetly camouflaged in grey Armani,
melting through the crowd to reach a pool
where some poor sap too drunk to drive,
was thinking loudly of a midnight dip.
My doctor said such wild hallucinations are
a common side effect of medication.

About a month ago, or maybe less,
while waiting for a friend's arrival,
I was drinking coffee at Heathrow.
Puzzled by a sickly smell, I turned and saw Death,
in a dusty black soutane, sitting with a group
of clerics; one of who was busy telling
all and sundry of an epidemic in Sudan.
Personally I thought he'd be advised
to focus on his own survival.

It's nearly dawn and I'm still waiting.
The house is dark, the windows shuttered.
I wander out into the garden
to stand glowering at the weeds.
Distantly I hear a tiny sound that swells
into a mighty roar, as down the hill towards me
flies a rider, trailing flames from twin exhausts;
suddenly he's braking, sparks are flying;
tyres are screaming, brakes are squealing;
and before he's shuddered to a halt,
he has burned a rubber scar for thirty feet
into the surface of our quiet suburban street.

I ask myself, but get no answer,
Is this whole performance necessary,
just to stop outside my garden?

The gate flies open and a biker enters
dressed like any other rider in black leathers.
This one lifts his visor and for the first time
I can see his shining eyes, his sunken cheeks,
his blackened teeth, a gaping hole where once
there grew a nose.
No amount of aftershave could ever mask
the awful smell of rotting flesh.
He leans in close to me and speaks:

"And so, young man, we meet at last.
I've had my eye on you some time,
and what I've seen of you I like.
I've never known a student of my calling
move so smoothly through a room so unobserved.
I sense you have a darker side,
or you could never pick me out within a crowd.
As always I am running late, so I'll be brief and to the point;
Despite your lack of knowledge of my craft,
I'm offering you the post as my assistant.
I can teach you how wield a knife,
more skilfully than any surgeon,
to separate the carcass from the soul.
You name your price and I'll pay more.
There is no miser I can't part from all his treasure.
No one cares to fight with me.
I have been longer at my work
than any creature born on earth.
It's time that I should take my ease.
I need no more than any nameless pauper.
All I want's a bed of earth,
a grassy knoll to rest my head,
a quiet place to lay my bones,
sleep to last at least a million years.
And all I have shall then be yours.
Don't keep me waiting, sir. What's your decision?
Will you live as rich as Croesus,
or must you die like Julius Caesar?
Is it 'yes' or is it 'no'?"

In the silence that ensues
I find no words to soothe Death's pride,
nor any way of adequately conveying,
I could never be his butcher's boy
and even less his new replacement.
My trade is poetry not murder.
Lost for words I shake my head.

Death doesn't hesitate an instant,
as from his jacket flies a butcher's blade,
and with a single thrust he severs
all the strings that tie me to this earth.
I am shocked to feel so little pain;
for something strange is happening inside;
I feel as if the knife is freeing me
of other people's needs and expectations;
some I've carried since a child.
Death, who has few friends he hasn't killed,
is unconcerned and ticks me off his list.
His knife meticulously clean,
slides obediently into his jacket.
At once its master mounts his bike,
and with a terse salute,
he rockets off in clouds of dust,
attention fixed upon on his next appointment.

All the time my love lies sleeping,
I am floating high above the garden;
staring down on row on row
of neat, identical, suburban homes,
where ordinary people raise their kids,
and walk their dogs and swop their wives,
and mow their lawns and pay their bills,
and grow tomatoes under glass,
and live their small uncelebrated lives.
I lived here once but then I died.

I am a kite, cut free of flesh and bone,
and all that bound me to the earth.
Watch and you shall see me soaring
far into an outer darkness,
where you'll find no doubts,
no tears, no parting kisses
no turning back, no second chance,
no sign of heaven, or eternal bliss.

My kite is servant to a different master,
carried swiftly by the solar winds,
somewhere far beyond this little world
of petty arguments and small enticements.

Do not grieve for me, my lover.
Not for long shall we be parted.
Autumn bids the wind blow stronger.
Soon your kite shall follow, dancing.