The Railwaymen

"The railwaymen glowered motionlessly, awaiting strong tea, awaiting death, seeing death
before them, not interfering."
--Robert Aickman, "Marriage"

For when one is "retired" in that sense,
One doesn't wish to be reminded
Of sunny fields and holidays
In places where one hears the throbbing
Ocean's mighty, muffled roar.
Nothing so induces tartness,
A squeamish bitterness on the tongue,
As pleasant, irreverent memories
Of when, at youthtide's highest height,
The fruit was at its syrupy ripest,
The searing bloodsurge at its strongest,
The urge to capriole . . . just frightening.
Better to drink the muddy tea
And stare at one's bootlace
And pick at one's placket
Than glance to the side and chance a reflection that--
Mirror to mirror, pane to pane--
Rebounds and redounds into infinite hallways,
With the subject drowning in self-replications,
The original broken and blurry and vague.
"That was someone else," is the sober conclusion,
And so it was; no amount of rewinding,
Of reeling in or playing out,
Will snag a fresh fish--those days are over.
Go back to the bench in trenchcoat and trilby,
Huddle and hunch and scuff the feet
As rollickers wrestle on a sod
That teems with ants, that crawls with spiders,
That bustles with beetles, bitty biters, and bees.