Old age brings with it
such a thirst for life,
these hollow shadows
of former things,
where comforts ghost moves
inside dead bone loneliness.
Forms of sacred wonder
move inside a finite brain,
drenched in delusion but,
calling out to a ‘something’?
There are weeds;
there are slagheaps of the past,
gone to an old English wind.
And then there is me,
with a ticking clock,
and a beating heart.
A very good expression of old age Chris, I like it.