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An Imperfect Life

poetry by Fr. Harold Macdonald

The Series

Rehearsal

Look at us! Sitting on the lakeshore sand.

We watch, chic hat-brims shielding us with shade.

Some novel thing or one already played -

Is it receding? Coming close at hand?

Look at us! We, habitually alert

await the signs ahead without regret;

watch for the final act, the final set,

the final bow and curtsey in the dirt.

To each we are the audience, the fans;

bear witness that there was, indeed, a play,

a dance, a turning of the night to day.

(Applause.) "Encore!" A clapping of the hands.

(The rumour is; the end of time will bring

another stage.) Ah yes; the play’s the thing.