Going Grand

Going Grand

An old postcard, tucked into the mirror.
the writing, scrawled and faded.

How far away is Death? How near?
Awareness of the grave is
a sword of Damocles above my head,
held by a single, flimsy thread;
waiting for a weakness, a jolt, a blade.
Inevitable extinction; the flip side,
the corollary - the end point, of life.
How long abides that life?

I turned the postcard over
to see the picture on the front.

Last week, a friend died,
six weeks short of his century,
A former prisoner of war
who reconciled enemies
and bequeathed to generations,
his life’s spirit, fruitful and inspiring.

Others died last week:
Wombed babies, aborted
by accident or design;
Infants, starved by war and famine;
Children, lost to accident or affliction,
neglect or violence;
Life barely tasted.

A curlicued border surrounded
the sepia photograph of a mighty ship.

Some died in the midst of life:
Young men who drove too fast or lived too hard;
Soldiers, sacrificed in wars decreed by others;
Innocent victims of hate and suicide bombers.
Some welcomed Death’s cold embrace,
escaping the heated anguish of Life.
Others slipped away under the allure
of mind-altering drugs.
And how many others were just
in the wrong place at the wrong time?

The “Titanic”, in all her majesty;
symbol of a new and glorious future,
was magnificently portrayed.

What of we, who have tasted
Life’s full flavour -
or frittered it away
in wasteful might-have-beens?
Are our lives any different
to those foreshortened?
Do we, any more than they,
know the time of our passing?

‘Dear friend’, the writer said,
‘just a line to show I am alive
and kicking and going grand.’

Death comes by chance alone
it seems at times – Fate’s whimsy.
Many say that Life and Death,
their time and span,
are not ours to determine,
but are in the hands of God;
or perhaps of Destiny -
our time written in the stars.
We do not know the hour;
and if we did,
would it make a difference?

The postcard was dated the day before
the ill-fated vessel sank beneath
the frigid waters of the Atlantic Ocean.



Linda Visman
13th March 2007


Written after reading an article by Matt Price in "Weekend Australian" (10th Feb. 07) about the death of one journalist and the serious injury of another in the Garuda Airlines crash in Yogyakarta, Indonesia the week before. In his story, Price mentions the story of an old postcard that cosmologist, Carl Sagan, kept near his shaving mirror.

Poem edited and re-ordered 3rd July 2007

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