Approaching 74
and every ache,
every niggle, every
unexplained twitch
in the night,
presages doom and
a twinkle in an
undertaker’s eye.
Half way through 73
and sour memories
bubble up like methane
in Lake Baikal, erupt
randomly like black
mud in Rotorua, old
regrets seem once
again possible triumphs,
old grievances can
once again cut the psyche
like a knife.
Getting close to
my seventy third Xmas
and counting again
all the gifts I have
been given over
this amazingly long
time. Love, and
friendship, and
life itself.
nomdeplume 