Paul Yandle
Aging
I miss the days when I could
dance the steps of the Macarena
or pick up the milk from the doorstep
in nothing but my underwear,
when summers lasted all summer,
not just a few days in June.
Those days and others have gone.
They are the postmark stamped
on an envelope posted in the past,
each one hand-delivered while we slept,
each one awaiting us on the doormat
of our next new morning.
It is enough to make you sit up
in your orthopaedic chair
and turn the volume down to half,
so you can hear yourself think,
and think about a time when you were young,
and not just at heart.
Then afterwards, as we glance towards
the future, at the bright silver clothing
and the mode of transport that seems so fast,
so dangerous, what a relief it is to sit here now
watching the birds in the garden,
stroking the dog with one hand
and eating a scone with the other,
the butter melting into the bread
like it did when I was a child.
dance the steps of the Macarena
or pick up the milk from the doorstep
in nothing but my underwear,
when summers lasted all summer,
not just a few days in June.
Those days and others have gone.
They are the postmark stamped
on an envelope posted in the past,
each one hand-delivered while we slept,
each one awaiting us on the doormat
of our next new morning.
It is enough to make you sit up
in your orthopaedic chair
and turn the volume down to half,
so you can hear yourself think,
and think about a time when you were young,
and not just at heart.
Then afterwards, as we glance towards
the future, at the bright silver clothing
and the mode of transport that seems so fast,
so dangerous, what a relief it is to sit here now
watching the birds in the garden,
stroking the dog with one hand
and eating a scone with the other,
the butter melting into the bread
like it did when I was a child.
Page(s) 29
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