On the Passing of My 36th Year

What

Brings this or that to here,

To loss, or spare

At these, my racked foundations?

 

Each tumbled brick, spilt

From toppled spires,

Where tired lies tell all guilt

Despairs

At the kindle lent

By night fires.

 

What pennants flung

From yard and mast in youth,

When grapeshot, ball, chain and truth

Spat,

Heeding not, my dear...

That frail craft

Time;

My privateer.

 

Years along, grey, drab and grim lipp’d

Salt taste and beard,

I would I’d waited there...

My Guinevere!

 

David Lewis Paget