When Azrael Comes Knocking
When Azrael* comes knocking, it won’t be with bony fists,
I believe, he’ll be a Doctor, with a cure,
Or a Maiden with her posies, a Knight jousting in the lists,
Or a gently whistling, mournful Troubadour.
When my time has come for leaving, I believe, I’ll punch him out,
Though I’ll break my hand in doing it, I’m sure
Or he’ll duck the blow and throw me o’er his shoulder like some lout
And I’ll have to go with him to Evermore.
I suppose he’s used to fearsome images, limned in the mind,
Where spectres, spooks and ghouls widely endure
But I think he’s just a jailer, come to open (and be kind)
The way out of a cage that serves, no more.
So, when he brings his medicine, I think I’ll swallow it,
And thank him for the friends he’s brought with him
I don’t believe he’ll be a jolly soul, although I wit
He’ll stroke my bald head, turn the lights to dim…
Or, when she shows me posies, with a certain tranquil air,
I deeply will inhale, nod, go to sleep,
And let her cool my hot brow with a hand that isn’t there,
Give thanks, she’s eased the passage I must keep.
Or, when he boldly rides at me, sharp angle to his spear,
I’ll bellow out a challenge, DING! his helm,
And keep my seat, take point through shield, ride at him without fear,
And know my lady watches o’er the realm.
Or, lastly, when he whistles a low tune that stills my heart,
I’ll join in, softly sing along with him,
As he plucks his sombre lute strings I will hum the descant part
And slowly fade away, heart in the trim.
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*Azrael – in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem of the same name, the Angel of Death
2/28/2019
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