Tired. Tired and with a night-vision of a never-ending road, presenting and preventing the future. Tired and with a series of aches representing the wind-down.
The older you get the longer it takes to get old.
In the small hours I wrote what may be or may become a new poem; it has no title yet:
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And so the old men go to war
each approaching his end
in his own way and his own good time
no matter how, in flame, in soil, in lime,
dissolution, final or otherwise, is our last wide smile,
“Oh, yes!” our last flesh-based word.–John Bailey, December 2009
West Glamorgan, Wales
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