A Poem by Adrian Masters

In old age, Samuel arises early

Here I am, clutching my paunch,
alone in blue dark before dawn,
knuckles resting on my thighs
like mistletoe on old olive branches.

Clutching, too, this hour before dawn,
this oily lamp, this plate of green figs.
I who was greedy for justice and fame,
now greedy merely
for this plate of green figs, this oily lamp,
this hour before dawn.

Yes I am old,
as old as Eli when he fell from his chair.
I straighten in my chair,
my knuckles rest on my thighs.

Mine was a childhood interrupted — no,
a boyhood barely begun;
I was a priest with milk teeth.
I should have stopped my ears with clay.

Though what clay could stop that voice?
For now I only hear my breathing and think
another could have used these breaths better than I.

Still the people require shelter,
and I will not begrudge;
I was shaped for their shelter
as water shapes a cave.
I who have been their judge,
I hear them coming, crowding.

Another could have used these breaths better.
Here I am, clutching my paunch.

Adrian Masters is a journalist and broadcaster, living in Wales.