07 December 2015


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