Better late

I reached my

seventies, it

seemed, in a rush.

Suddenly I was

wandering in

a forest of years:

71, 77, 73, 78,

74, and look,

over there, at

the edge of the

forest, is 79.

And I think,

“I won’t be in

this forest very

long, for I am

running through

it. I should make

up my mind soon

what I am going

to do with my

life.”

Drip, drip, drip

As we grow older

small invisible

pores form in our skulls

and from them (like holes

in water tanks) drip

thoughts and ideas,

and memories of

recent times (being

closer to surface

of the mind), and wit

and concentration,

and names of people

once known like brothers

and sisters, and new

appointments, and old

research written by

me (apparently).

Quite soon the tank of

my mind I thought so

full will empty, like

dams drying in this

fearsome drought of my

old age.

Homeward bound

Just as well the house

I lived in as a child has

been demolished,

bulldozed, removed from

the surface of the planet

and replaced by two new

houses with no history.

Not that I would want

it still standing but

extensively remodeled

and modernised. No

point in that other than

it representing the spot

on the planet where

I was formed and grew.

What I want, I suppose,

is to magically return

to the functioning 1950s

house, even the 1960s.

Furniture still in place,

pictures on walls, carpets

on floors, ornaments on

shelves, books in bookcases.

And people, people in chairs,

in kitchens, watching tv,

in the garden, welcoming

the New Year, talking of

the past. A house, a home,

reconstructed, revisited,

a place I once couldn’t

wait to escape for new

adventures, new sights

and sounds, new people.

But the past is another

country, and you can’t go back.