Glaucoma
Eyesight’s going ...
Each year the lenses thicken
To unscramble the flurry of words
Either read or written;
A discursive Morse Code:
Pictograms, hieroglyphics,
Tattoos, graffiti, facebook, woad.
Though looking back seems clear enough,
If you don’t stare too hard
At all the peripheral stuff.
But one always glossed over the small print,
What the packet really contained:
Those illegible, inedible ingredients.
Still, it’s in the failure to deliver
That life takes our measure,
That and in the unsuspected depth of the
mirror.
Yet, finally, the future’s focus is tight
On the oncoming darkness –
The tunnel at the end of the light.
