This is about a time in my life which still echoes down the years and colours all of my days. I was not a Christian at the time, and so this poem is written from that point of view. It would have been untrue to myself and to him who is the subject of the poem if I had tried to paste an artificial Christian meaning onto it. Death is a mystery to all humanity, and that’s what this is about. At Least There Was Incense At least there was incense at the last, As there the one I loved lay dying, His light dimming, his life laid bare To the coming of departure As his body burned to embers While we who loved him kept watch. There was incense, as I said, His favourite, compounded of sandalwood And the attar of eastern flowers, Dense with smoky sweetness, his scent, his signature, Precious token of the presence so soon to be gone, A solitary stick stuck astoundingly Into the skin of a banana, Left to smoulder there while he too seemed to smoulder, Silent now, his bardic love of language now reduced to meaningless moaning. His voice, his touch, his intensity Which once awoke in me the ancient strength of oaks, Of white pines standing in starlit, aurora-laden woods, Of sea-smoothed rocks turning gentle swells to foamy spray, Was now turned inward in a dreadful dance, And we could do nothing but try to help him take his road To where the land of summer waited Warm and green beyond the dying hills. They told me later, for I was not there, That when he took his final breath, He cast his gaze on some amazing sight Which no one else could see but him, And then he simply slipped away, Lay down the burden of his failing body And let himself go lightly onward, His spirit spiralling, unspooling Like fragrant smoke upon the wind. Thanks for listening to Wonder-woven, a poetry podcast from Reveries and Ramblings! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit smfeir.substack.com
