Not long now before I move beneath the wood
And this laborious effort is wasted.
When I lie in the lie of peace
What results then of toil and pain?
A few crumbling sculptures perhaps
For the fortunate few
Or words across a generation
Before I'm just a name in the tree
Traced but never copied
My voice unheard
Among a wealth of recordings
My face unseen
Displayed to millions
Eighty point one years half empty
And you hold the urn.
© Copyright 2016 Mathew Nicolson. All rights reserved.