I cling to the railings as befits my station:
a senior person slipping slowly downhill.
The world no longer our oyster,
gone are the safaris of yesteryear,
the all-night parties, ice-skating
in the blurry light of dawn…
But perpetual youth? Think: the sense
of déjà vu, potions for complexion
and performance, the strain
of staying abreast of fashion.
part consolation, the ungrudged ageing
of loved ones, neither left behind
but each meeting the other’s eye,
enriched by what they’ve been through.
Whereas the mind roaming, and all
forgotten, pray for merciful oblivion.
The one sure adage: Bette Davis’s
no-shit ‘Growing old sure ain’t for sissies!’