When do we become old? Perhaps it is
when the cousin's name slips from its moorings,
or when an unnecessary kindness
taps us on the shoulder? I may insist
that grey is silver, that no bald patch marks
the back of my head, that no drooping jowls
stare sourly out of the shaving mirror,
but the moment must come, vigour must fade,
the head must nod and the eyelids must droop.
I ran in my denial, hiding years
behind green lanes, where hawthorn spikes hide fears
of an unwanted decline, skylarks trill
their distracting coloratura, and uphill
slopes lift my 'youth' above the morning chill.
On this day though, as life's routine took hold,
the knee groaned and demanded to be old.
No comments:
Post a Comment