Silence Does Most To Impress

Just what, exactly, is a life?
Mere accumulated years,
Or no more than a single day?
An hour of laughter and tears


Might well be sufficient, enough
To satisfy appetites
That are, mostly, easily sated.
Although some would prefer nights,


Most would choose to enjoy their days,
However many or few,
In sun rather than moonlight.
But, how to be sure what’s true.


Teachers proved so disappointing;
In the past they would have known
But, the curriculum stops them
Having answers of their own,


As ministers of state decree
Which lessons have to be learned,
Which improving books must be read,
Which libraries must be burned,


Using carbon capture, of course,
To prevent harming the earth.
Bankers were worse. They had no way
Of calculating the worth


Of a minute, or agreeing
A common conversion rate
By which financial exchanges,
With weighting, could calculate


The precise value of an hour.
Perhaps a soul lodged inside
A life might have intrinsic worth:
But, priests remained mystified,


Mumbling vague prayers and platitudes,
Quite unable to mention
Fabulous realms beyond theirs or
Anyone’s comprehension.


As for the physicists, they were,
It appeared, quite overjoyed.
The well of everything, they said,
Was nothing, a fecund void


In which time began to tick. Good!
There was a watch after all,
Though no watchmaker. Better ask
The sextons, those who install


Cold clay in measured pits of clay.
They aren’t fooled by fancy words,
Watching even marble crumble.
The worst for them are the turds


Dog walkers leave behind amongst
Sad sentiments set in stones,
Where they must carefully excavate
For the next skin-bag of bones.


So, on their recommendation,
Prostitutes are consulted,
They know the price of flesh at least,
If not its value. It’s said


By most, there’s no correlation
Between cash and the spending,
Or the time taken for either.
Yet, there’s pleasure in blending


Good whiskies, in grand-fathering,
In choosing a politics
Deliberately out of step,
In a bag of pick and mix


Selected just to stop the mouth
With sweetness, sickly sweetness,
Knowing each day there is less to say,
Silence does most to impress.



Dave Alton