After our August celebrations
that farmer began his harvest.
Example, with its stipulations:
survey work done, save what's best.
This month, when my next birthday dawns,
I hope to make nine times seven
years old. One more septet remains
of our human three score and ten
to give final from to my life
and what is mine to leave. Then exit
with old age's sigh of relief,
standing by what has been well weft.
Now, as they die I cross out friends'
addresses. Beside them I read some
that may not stay much more. Who ends
the last must silence on alone.
And yet, just now I drank
a beer with one old pal who today had,
fifty-six years ago, with dear
good luck survived at sea torpedoed.
He doesn't tug up his bed sheets, yet.
The day we start that means death's close.
This hare still hops ahead of that
Mower to the hag's-sheaf magic trance.