Missing Things
I'm very old and breathless, tired and lame, and soon I'll be no more to anyone than the slowly fading trochee of my name and shadow of my presence: I'll be gone.
Already I begin to miss the things I'll leave behind, like this calm evening sun which seems to smile at how the blackbird sings.
There's something valedictory in the way my books gaze down on me from where they stand in disciplined disorder and display the same goodwill that well-wishers on land convey to troops who sail away to where great danger waits. These books will miss the hand that turned the pages with devoted care.
And there are also places that I miss: those Paris streets and bars I can't forget, the scent of caporal and wine and piss; the pubs in Soho where the poets met; the Yorkshire moors and Dorset's pebbly coast, black Leeds, where I was taught love's alphabet, and this small house that I shall miss the most.
I've lived here for so long it seems to be a part of what I am, yet I'm aware that when I've gone it won't remember me and I, of course, will neither know nor care since, like the stone of which the house is made, I'll feel no more than it does light and air. Then why so sad? And just a bit afraid?
Vernon Scannell
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