Tag Archives: growing old


Tomorrow I shall be forty-nine.
There will be wine
No doubt
And I shall go about
With a smile, for I am not fifty yet.
But you can safely bet
That when I reach that half-century stage
I shall conveniently forget
(For memory fails with age),
And on 6 January twenty-nineteen say
“I am 49 today!”.


Do Those Who Drink Of Lethe

Do those who drink of Lethe
Find surcease
From pain?
Or do they wrack their brain
In a vain
Attempt to regain
What is forever, lost?

O to be free of regret
And forever forget
A life ill spent.
But what cost
To drink
Of Lethe and no more think,
But merely to do
As like some automaton
We wander through
Where memory fades
And days are as one.

The departed are gone
But know it not, or perhaps they do
As tears may break through
When half remembered years
Enter the head
Of the living dead.

All men meet the ferryman, but not all fear
The guide
Who carries us to the other side.
It is Lethe drear
That inspires most dread.
The Greeks said
That the ferryman comes before we quench our thirst
In Lethe’s waters.
But no, ‘Tis not always so
For sons and daughters are left behind
When loved ones find
The river where memory fractures, before the body dies.

My Birthday

Today is my birthday. I am 47, although I must confess to not feeling any different to how I felt yesterday! I will spend today relaxing before meeting friends for drinks in my favourite pub, the Railway Bell this evening, then going on for a curry. Like Prufrock I shall grow old, wear my trousers rolled, walk along the beach and eat a peach. On second thoughts, I shall stick to a few convivial pints with friends followed by a good curry!


The Autumn Of My Years

Now that I have reached the Autumn of my years

and the grey has chased the brown away

shall I forget the undiscovered rose

whose perfume

hangs in the air

on a spring night

replete with pure delight?

Should I wear sensible shoes

And lose

The joy of walking

Barefoot on grass?

Shall I seek the fairies dancing

Or insist

They do not exist?

I must persist

In my search for bliss

For to be alive

Is to strive

for something more

Than to achieve the title “saloon bar bore”.

I am not a bee in a hive

A mere part of the whole

Lacking a soul.

Joy is my goal!