The Raven

The last few years she has been jeering
Older folk with birthdays nearing
Asking, were they hard of hearing?
With sarcasm to the fore.
Was our eyesight tired and dimming?
Did our nose-hairs need some trimming?
Had we seen our thirties skimming,
Tripping gaily out the door?

We all smiled at her elation,
Bit our lips in sheer frustration,
Got on with the celebration,
Celebrate one birthday more.
Envious, one shrugged one’s shoulder,
Declined the primal need to scold her,
Laughed at being one year older,
Though it cut us to the core.

Then one day appeared a raven,
Black as soot, remorseless, craven,
As if searching for a haven,
Perched outside her kitchen door.
Motionless, it sat there eyeing
Brenda while she did the drying,
Caring not a jot for flying.
Quoth the raven, “Two years more.”

There it sat with eyes beguiling,
Staring at the kitchen tiling,
Never frowning, never smiling,
At the woman there before.
Brenda felt a darkness creeping,
Like a cloud while she was sleeping,
Like a giant sorrow weeping.
Quoth the raven, “Two years more.”

“Go away!” she cried, with feeling.
“You are very unappealing.
Why, oh why have you come stealing,
Stealing by my kitchen door?
Won’t you flee my line of vision?
Your gaze is like a deep incision.
I’m off to watch some television.”
Quoth the raven, “Two years more.”

Late that night, while Dave lay dreaming,
And the stars were brightly gleaming,
The bright light of the moon came beaming
Onto Brenda’s bedroom floor.
Silhouetted, terrifying,
Came a black shape softly flying,
Gravity with scorn defying.
Quoth the raven, “Two years more.”

Clad only in a skimpy nightie,
Brenda’s temper went to Blighty,
Shouting, “Jesus Christ Almighty!
What a repetitious bore!
Are these the only words you’ve mastered?
Or are you quite severely plastered?
Get away from me, you bastard!”
Quoth the raven, “Two years more.”

Brenda tried to block her ears and
Dissipate her strongest fears and
Forget about advancing years and
Stem what Fortune held in store.
But, into her mind came slyly
Three small words, though spoken shyly,
By that bird so old and wily,
Quoth the raven, “Two years more.”

On the train now every morning,
While she sits there, tired and yawning,
At her shoulder, mocking, scorning,
Slight of build yet sharp of claw.
Now her jeers all seem so hollow,
With that bitter pill to swallow,
Where she goes, the bird will follow.
Quoth the raven, “Two years more.”