Poems by Tony Dawson

Delicious Decay

When my love and I first met
my life had reached its medlar moment,
or the ripeness of a quince or persimmon.
I say this because I had begun to blet,
just like those fruits when ready to eat:
lightly bruised and showing signs of rot.
Unperturbed by appearances or differences
in age, I was very much to her taste.
She fancied me rotten, as they used to say
in jest, and stepped up to take a bite.
It has been my good fortune to be consumed
in this lay communion every day since then.

What Love Is

I was walking hand-in-hand
with the love of my life,
in the coolness of the evening,
she as sprightly as ever at 70
I, limping painfully towards 89.
She squeezed my hand
and whispered in my ear
the words that keep me going:
“I’m glad you’re still here”
as if it was down to me
when I know it’s because
she cares for me so well.
I’m glad that she’s still here.
Without her, I wouldn’t be.

Last Will

For Janet

I will you my undying love,
a testament to staunch the tears
you’ll surely shed, now I’m not
there to warm your bed. I will
you all my memories instead:
the love we had until the end
undimmed by passing years.
I will you all the poems I wrote
to comfort you now I’ve gone.
In Leonard Cohen’s view, “others
loved before us”, but I am sure
no couple loved each other more
than we did. My life awoke to the sunrise
of your smile and the love-light in your eyes.

Nothing is Certain Except…

I opened the door to a man outside
holding a clipboard, biro poised.
“I work to a deadline,” said he and sighed
“What’s that got to do with me?” I asked
“What a silly question,” he replied.
“Of course it has to do with you.”
“Why turn up unannounced?” I cried.
“Because I believe in spontaneity.”
“I don’t let strangers come inside.”
“I could call ahead but mostly don’t.
My clients prefer to be surprised.”
“Not me. I would rather be given notice.”
“But my kind of notice gives people cold feet,
 because of the deadline I must meet...”

Lean and slipper’d pantaloon

Now I’ve reached the sixth age of man
referred to by Will in As You Like It
I, having passed my allotted span,
am leaner as I reach my epilogue.
Not one of my shanks has actually shrunk
and my manly voice is still piping hot,
but I am not as brawny as I used to be.
Oblivion may beckon, but guess what:
I still have nearly every tooth in my head,
and both my eyes are cataract free,
while my exquisite taste remains intact.
Mine is a triumph of the will, so a pox
on Shakespeare, for I’m happy to say
the seventh age has passed me by.