Seven o’clock.

Daylight comes to an overcast morning. I walked to the market an hour ago with the music of Gustav Holst in my ear, from The Planets. It was pitch dark, but well lighted by artificial means. Several times I paused and looked around me. But my mind was really on things years in the past, though similar to the present time. I’m getting onto the spirit of the age, whether others agree with it or not. The newbie at the store, Lisa, wore a triangular Celtic pendant that I mistook for AA. She told me she used to get into Wicca and she distrusted organized religion, etc. I listened to her and said good for you, then turned to go out the door.

The Saturn piece by Holst reminds me of buying King Voltaire dog biscuits for my pug in his old age; sometimes I bought Beggar Dog if I was at the convenience store. There’s probably a reason why this music haunts me lately. I see Aesop getting mellower as he ages, so I just hope for a few more good years together. I remember when he was a puppy and would lick my ear off when we retired to bed, and I’d be breathing alcoholic fumes. Aesop forgave everything. There were times when he was my only family; indeed, my only friend. Meanwhile the sun keeps climbing behind the clouds and never stops chasing its own tail.

The blonde assassin passes on,

The sun proceeds unmoved,

To measure off another day

For an approving God. 

The Singing Saw

The rings of Saturn, bringer of old age,

Afar whine like a singing saw a song

I apprehended when my pug grew old

Some time in summer of 2011.

The piece by Holst entranced me where I sat

Hearing it in my memory on the couch

With little Henry next me unaware

Of anything portentous going on.

That August morning’s music struck a deep

Compassionate chord when on me it was dawning

That Henry’s time on earth was limited:

The notes of Cronus preordained it so.

It is the way of every living thing

To put into the dawn its evening

And fortify what grows with what decays:

The scythe of Saturn quivers to amaze.