Compline At Sixty - Poem by Bernard Kennedy
at last? I can recall
the evening tailed procession
with censor and incense,
most dead or compline of life.
In the evening we recall,
the brightness of the football field,
anxiety about Nicomachean ethic
and Plato Symposium,
and Freud's hidden things.
The hill gets climbed and
I have baptised and buried
and given travellers many tenpence,
and sang the Alleluia chorus of Handel
and the waiting is
from compline to complan?
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