Growing old, I find myself preoccupied with life’s endings: a balancing of accounts, so to speak, and the inevitable feelings of regret and remorse for things done badly or left undone.
Deliberations of that sort inspired this piece of verse, as did the lonely, final years of renowned Guernsey-born novelist, G B Edwards, the demise of an old friend in similar straitened circumstances and, of course, Larkin’s famous poem, Mr Bleaney.
I find Philip Larkin's poem a haunting one, particularly as I grow older and become increasingly aware of the isolation and consequent loneliness that so many fall prey to.
My own poem, The Landlady's Tale, taps into the anxiety that many elderly people feel as time leaks steadily away.
THE LANDLADY’S TALE
These were the only things he had.
I put them in a cardboard box.
Just what he wore. I thought it sad.
Apart from extra pants and socks.
A good innings at eighty-one.
We never knew he had a son.
He always was a quiet chap:
no trouble, liked his mugs of tea.
He’d come down to my door and tap,
Fancy a cuppa, Mrs P?
Before you go, forgive my cheek,
he didn’t pay his rent last week.
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