Imminent Just Before Death Poem by Mark Heathcote

Your voice is like fruit under-ripened
Your hair needs to turn a silvery grey,
Your thoughts need to weep like a cloud
And pave the ground in a creeping moss
Your fingers need to wither like coffin nails
And palms roll out a ball of unravelling-yarn
But your eyes need to glint like white jasmine
And strike and put the moonlight in fear
And then and only then, will they learn
About your wisdom, your solemn truth
About your knowledge and faith
And listen to what you have in abundance to say.