Peter Norman

AFTER STILLNESS

Even the human statue must retire.
Time runs out on a motionless career.
He steps down from his podium. A cheer
Does not resound. Contorted with desire
For dance, his muscles thaw. The loose attire
Slumps round his weary limbs. He sheds a tear.
On the powdered face, rivulets appear:
One messenger sometimes precedes a choir.

It is a short walk to his pension room.
He inches down the sidewalk. An array
Of jugglers and magicians pause and stare,
Enraptured by this specter of a prayer:
A healed wound, a bandage torn away,
A slow, astonished groping from the tomb.

A COUPLE TENDS THE FIRE

One day, when years enfeeble them, will she,
Bending to prod an ember, smile despite
The grinding of her cartilage, and light
Another match? Will the kindling finally
Ignite?
Red-fringed, black flakes of newspaper take flight,
Ride up the charred shaft of the chimney.
Outside, above, they congregate. Old ink
Arranged on curling paper. A vague shape
Solidifies over the slaking roof.
A passerby might think
He'd spied the billowing folds of a great cape
And heard the fall of an ashen hoof.

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