Senescence

"Here I am, an old man in a dry month"
T S Eliot, Gerontion
Gerontion by Thomas Stearns Eliot

Within my room, inside the walls,
I do not count the passing of the days.
Papers rustle as a brown leaf falls,
And lamplight cloaks the winter greys,
With warmer, orange, steady light,
By which I read, and even sleep,
For, careless both of day and night,
I sit, half-awake, a coddled heap.
And in the grate the fire smokes away
All year round - I am now cold all year,
While crimson curtains fade and fray,
Hanging undrawn, unwanted and unclear.
I have grown tired of books and ancient dust,
I will go out to meet the cold,
I accept Life and so I must
Admit at last that I am growing old.

I shall sit and stare, watch and wait,
Once more a child, I shall laugh and learn,
And when the sun says "Sleep, it's getting late",
I shall at once to bed and blanket turn.
And I shall strain to hear a winter snow,
And smile as catkins cover trees,
And in the summer, soak up the glow
Of sun; in short, I shall do my best to please.
I shall wait for knocks upon the door,
And answer them, and talk, and offer tea,
And shuffle through the dust upon the floor,
And sit becalmed as a silver bell rings "Three".

My skin is wrinkled, my muscles gone to waste;
I struggle with the passing of the days.
The ashes of the years all I taste;
My self-possession crumbles, courage frays.
I shall sit and wait here, watch and - hark!
I hear a footstep now upon the stair.
Death calls me out, I walk into the dark,
Uncertain whether Hell is here or there,
And uncertain whether life was mine at all.

Martin Locock, 1984