She returned from the doctor’s surgery.
There was a silence. Then another. Then.
“He says it’s terminal,” she said.
“Life is terminal,” he replied quietly.
You have your keyboard with you
plus I see you brought your keys along too.
As for me: I have as you see brought my horn along.
No bass required to intervene, as agreed. Too basing.
No superfluous traps either. A binding promise.
Let’s go play the blues then. Melt into one another’s I’s
Country sounds good (when using ears rather than eyes)
while delta seems inviting also. Finger style?
I’m more than willing if that’s your choice.
Twelve bar, sixteen bar, thirty-two bar if you like.
Muddy water. Let’s dive in and search for a pearl.
Fare thee well. Forever. See you on that other shore.
Reflect … consider
The conductor cries out
“End of the line! All change!”
Passengers wake up
Look round for their possessions
But no pockets in a shroud
A story or two
They’d tell out
These folded fingers
If gifted a fresh blush of
Lips, palate, tongue
A blessing this perhaps
Or rather more a curse
Or better still the both
A confession, an absolution
Each sat astride its mirror
Hubris swallowed, spat out
These crablike fingers
Clutching at straws
While nearby a camel
Patiently awaits a breaking
Oh, what a story
They would spill
Then two then three
Then four than five
These mottled fingers
TWILIGHT’S LAST GLEAMING
Let us stroll now this empty orchard
Gone out of season and out of time
Grasp poetry, physics, the perfect rhyme*
To toast the Doctor’s magic pilchard†
A heavenly couple’s life is hard
S’not all apples, there’s sweat and grime
And groping in the dark and slime
With nothing sure left behind to guard
Cast out of the bright garden and left alone
Adam’s apple crumbles leaving merely bone
Always was a throaty tickle mainly subliminal
The doctor’s bobs in uttering the word “terminal”
In God they trust, in palliative they clutch
And this and that and so and such
* … our favourite Time Lord who had been teaching everything from poetry to physics – “they’re the same thing, same rhymes” …
† “Once, long ago, a fisherman caught a magic haddock. The haddock offered him three wishes in return for its life. The fisherman said, “I’d like for my son to come home from the war. And a hundred pieces of gold.” The problem is, the magic haddock, like robots, don’t think like people. The fisherman’s son came home from the war, in a coffin. And the king sent a hundred gold pieces in recognition of his heroic death. The fisherman had one wish left. What do you think he wished for? Some people say he should have wished for an infinite series of wishes, but if your city proves anything, it is that granting all your wishes is not a good idea. […] In fact, the fisherman wished he hadn’t wished the first two wishes.”
– The Doctor.
UPDATED WEDDING VOWS
Till I am overcome by
Death or dementia
Being no longer of use
I release you from your vow