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Let him sleep, the day
holds only sadness now,
with memories of things
he would forget –
of waiting anguished hours
for footsteps on the stair –
domestic strife that frayed
his nerves beyond repair.

Let him sleep, the dawn
perforce for him is grey;
too short, the night precedes
another hopeless day.

Let him sleep, no dream
intrude the Might-Have-Been
that teased his bachelorhood;
lest waking, he perchance
on deprivation brood.

Let him sleep, in rest
relive those youthful days
when life was lived with zest,
untrammelled in its ways.

Let him sleep, he roves
no more with Homer’s men;
from Academe’s green groves
is barred his Attic pen.

Let him sleep awhile,
to  garden now confined,
his once walked daily mile
a joy now left behind.

So few things yet remain
to please, for from the stage,
Terpsichore’s domain,
excluded by his age,
his only solace now,
belated local fame
displayed on printed page.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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