They are taking the old men out to the field
in back of the big red barn
with a hole in the roof
where the crows fly in when they are disturbed 
and the small brown-and-white owl sings sweetly,
by his lights, in the afternoon;
they are taking the old men out for instruction
and execution.

Someway I do not understand,
between that time when old men were wise
and now, when they fail at every opportunity,
the others have become aware of their
disgusting degeneracy.
So they are taking the old men out there
and teaching them a lesson,
in the old, sure way.

You are disturbing, they say, and you
cannot see well, so we will poke at your eyes, to see
if that will help you see how wonderful we are.
we do not like to do this, you understand.
but your perception is weakened, and as old
as you are.  And so we must teach you this lesson
in judgement; why did you allow this hero
to be weak in his spirit?

`I was never a hero,' say the old men, one by one,
looking downward, because up has never yielded 
any result, and besides, it hurts the bended neck,
but the other, noisy others, act as if
no one has spoken; it is thus for them.
No one has spoken.
The old men watch the corn, or look for the hooty owl
and wait for the density of these others to reveal
                                        itself.

And it does; it always does.  Always,
they say, `you cannot speak,' and then
do not wait to listen,
old men are slow of thought, due to an excess
of things to think about,
and slowing cells are not a barrier to wisdom.
And so, one by one, the others line up
to shoot the hooty owls and crows, and the old, old
                                             men.
And the corn
blows in the wind
of quietly decomposing
old men.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett