Eighty

by Angela Prew

So here it is, that eighth decade
that brings with it old age, decrepitude,
the fireside and the rocking chair,
the wisdom and the memories;
but I have none of these except white hair.
Nothing’s changed since yesterday,
I still walk, swim, act foolishly, forget
I am supposed to finger photos of my family,
telling tales of them when young.
I can, at will, look back and back
to different days, strange fashions, customs
and a time before the internet.
I choose instead to plan ahead as I have always done.
But now, I realise, there is no time to waste. If
I want to see the Antipodes I must see them now;
the visit to the Taj Mahal won’t wait
nor will that boat trip to Barbados.
I must go today and fill
those brief days that are left to me.

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