In nine days I’ll be seventy years of age - it wasn’t
something I’d planned to reach; at thirty the stage
was set for a very early retirement, the kind where
you cease to compete because its a meaningless
repetition of besting that social beast of predatory
ascendency which doesn’t give a whit, or like you
finding your feet in depths where swimming’s less
an adventure than its advertising lets it be - but,
Hey nonny no, we’re on a celebratory road and in
a mood to be seen enjoying this milestone I once
considered ‘millstone’ to grudgingly bear with any
wisdom I might’ve left; past-tense I add - & here I
am abreast a threshold even angels fear to tread
unless properly escorted by the very likes of me
© 28 August 2015, I. D. Carswell
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