For six months, dear Sis, you’ll be six months older
than me - yeah, I know we’re three years apart and
take that as the conundrum’s essence; 3 May’s the
1942 day of your precedential deference - & for me
I have to wait for 6 September; and there’s th’ irony
Else-wise we’re siblings with a three years gap - in
which we neatly spent some time as youngsters in
our early schooling years, amazingly we were able
to survive without the pact to keep our hopes alive -
or’m I being naive about things I didn’t want to see
So even when we meet again, I’m the little fellow y’
made safe - and thank you for that - but I still reject
inferences that you’re rightly and mathematically a
whole three years and six months my senior; we’re,
in my wry belief, clearly a whole lot closer than that
© 26 April 2016, I. D. Carswell
A birthday poem for my little sister who is 3 years &
6 months (occasionally) older than me
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