old age – Mick Canning

God’s bones.

Cold stone skin covering

A hewn wooden ribcage that

Conceals a petrified heart.

A fossilised giant wallowing in a garden

Growing nothing but death.

We know we will get old

But it takes you by surprise all the same.

Perhaps we refuse to see the signs –

Unexpected offers of assistance,

A sudden inability to run for the bus and

A need to take more frequent breaks.

We become fragile,

And lose confidence in our abilities.

Perhaps we lack courage, but

Must we resort to this?

Really, only the young want to live forever.

Oh, the tedium of eternity

Where angels yearn for the peace of annihilation!

We have a choice;

At the end we have a chance to be brave.

One more of the poems from a notebook of about 25 years ago. Re-reading them, I am slightly surprised to find I rather like a lot of them, still. Although my style has altered considerably, my sentiments are still much the same. Which is as you would expect, I suppose.

But there are plenty that I certainly won’t be inflicting upon you!

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As hard as ice and twice as cold,

The devil that is growing old;

Who taunts our bodies’ feeble frames,

And takes our minds – forgetting names.

As cold as ice and twice as hard,

The back that’s bent, the hand that’s scarred.

The face that’s worn and lined with sorrow,

The fear there may be no tomorrow.

The fear tomorrow may come yet,

And bring us more embarrassment,

But how we cling with greedy hands,

To these poor fragile, shallow, lands!