Small birds will fly regardless

The day will come, believe me,
when the same old yellow sun
will rise from East as it has always done
to meet another dawn 

but one you will not greet,
old man, for there will no more be
the time remaining, time to wonder 
what it's for, what it is all about.

That sun will rise, the air skip gently 
through another lazy morning 
or blow a gale the likes of which 
you never saw in all your too short days.

So do not linger. Do not pause to speculate
on what might happen, one day, should you wait.

Peace - Burial at sea of Sir David Wilkie by J W Turner

I watched a short arts programme on the BBC iPlayer; Benjamin Zephania (who I saw perform in a small theatre on Mile End Road, Tower Hamlets - where I lived in 1982) was taking us through A Private View of an exhibition of Turner's late works at the Tate Museum.  The poet paused to reflect on Peace - Burial At Sea, painted in 1842 to mark the burial of Turner's friend Davd Wilkie.  Critics didn't take to it at the time.  Too dark.  Too gloomy.

Anyway.  Benjemin Zephaniah ruminated on the painting and the artist.  He drew our attention to the small bird gliding over the water, almost emerging from it.  I wrote my poem.