Grey

 

Grey

 

I once read something

about an old grey head

that wept his hour upon a desk –

called Desmond in a Tutu?

 

A bit florid I thought,

him decked out in his purple robes

you’d scan the lines, hold your nose,

but teach it to the sapient sutlers anyway,

because some wag prescribed it.

 

Anyway, here’s the thing - I saw more grey

as you might know,

peering into his office today

remembering it could’ve been mine, I’d applied,

was passed over,

shrugged, walked away.

 

Maybe, for the best.

She’s in a dress that shakes,

the words she’s saying,

I can’t quite make

out - lip-reading is not really my forte -

but I can predict

given scriptures before he

tells us what the hymns will be

and I’m holding out for ‘Abide With Me’

or ‘Ash Wednesday’.

 

Her deadline’s passed for sure -

and momentarily, I’m smug, I’m secure,

because you beat yourself up to meet them,

flog the sackcloth,

take communion wine,

but, you know, there’s her tears,

there’s supplication

and he’s trying not to cross his Rubicon.

 

Mouths: take time,

take all the time you need,

we’re not here to make you grieve,

he’s young, he’s strong –

we’ve gone to seed

and if we’re put out to pasture, then surely

we’re nought but cattle fodder.

 

Grey as Dandelion Clocks

that twist and fret their hour

upon the breeze

and then are seen no more.

 

Still, I’m waiting,

this wretched sermon well past its prime,

her grey head solemnly shaking in time

to his wagging finger,

his spittled lips,

 

and I think about why

they cling to us and grip,

try their damnedest

to never let us slip away

as Andrew Gold was heard to say.

 

Well. At last his vestibules

are opened wide,

he bids me forward, get inside

and I’ve already been

to buy my own hassock

while she pushes past,

her time renewed

and my time is come to take a pew.