The stars in their magnificent arrayLook down upon the Earth, their cynosure,Or so it seems. They are too far away,In fact, to see a thing; hence they look pureTo us. They lack the textures of our globe,So only we, from cameras carried high,Enjoy the beauty of the swirling robeThat wraps us up, the interplay of skyAnd cloud, as if a Wedgwood plate of blueAnd white should melt, and then, its surface stirredWith spoons, a treasure too good to be true,Be placed, and hover like a hummingbird,Drawing all eyes, though ours alone, to feastOn splendor as it turns west from the East.
There was a time when some of our young menWalked plumply on the moon and saw Earth rise,As stunning as the sun. The years since thenHave aged them. Now and then somebody dies.It’s like a clock, for those of us who sawThe Saturn rockets going up as ifMankind had energy to burn. The lawIs different for one man. Time is a cliffYou come to in the dark. Though you might fallAs easily as on a feather bed,It is a sad farewell. You loved it all.You dream that you might keep it in your head.But memories, where can you take them to?Take one last look at them. They end with you.
And still the Earth revolves, and still the blazeOf stars maintains a show of vigilance.It should, for long ago, in olden days,We came from there. By luck, by fate, by chance,All of the elements that form the worldWere sent by cataclysms deep in space,And from their combination life unfurledAnd stood up straight, and wore a human face.I still can’t pass a mirror. Like a boy,I check my looks, and now I see the shellOf what I was. So why, then, this strange joy?Perhaps an old man dying would do wellTo smile as he rejoins the cosmic dustLife comes from, for resign himself he must.
More of/about Clive James: http://www.clivejames.com/
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