If not my final journey
my next will start one pleasing, early autumn afternoon
at Largs: warm sun, cool breeze, low tide.
       See you there:
and dress me in a light, white cotton suit
with, why not, some too-red pocket handkerchief.
       No tie? No tie.
But certainly an attendent Panama; and paramour;
and paramours; and friends seeing me into
       my deckchair; the hum
from Lady Gowrie Drive being enough to let me know what
the world has been, what, apart from mes amis I'm leaving
       Even with the traffic
and the few obligatory seagulls, this should be all peace
Music might be nice, but what, and played by whom?
       (Not Bruckner for starters.
When I return as some fin-de-siecle Vienese
then Bruckner, one day, maybe.) But indecision will occupy hours
       (L'appotheosis de M. Lully?
'On ne peut pas toujours avoir ce qu'on veut'
de M. Jagger?) and once the choice arrives
       logistics follow. Please,
at my stage of existence who needs further
logistics? No: no music. Let's just commence a magnum:
       something crisp if not too parched
and. in deference to the parochial; South Australian.
Then imagine this: halfway through the celebrations
       (these must be celebrations)
I'll raise my flute in final toast, some distance
toward the heavens, And let it fall...

Alan Wearne.