On the subject of ageing,
I fear it’s not for me,
I just like wallowing in memories far too much
to have them snatched or slowly corroded, decayed
or fading into the golden sun-sleight of
half forgotten anecdotes and blistered self-denial
to not remember you, your brushed long hair, and trembling
smooth skin as you leant in for a second kiss,
to ever allow old-age the promise
of victory in wondering
who the women is when I look at a
sepia toned photograph, torn through the middle
up to half way, as if she had been ripped
from my life cruelly.
On the subject of ageing,
I don’t want to be the menace in over-powered scooter
crashing into shop windows
because I have no idea how to stop the wheel spin
or confusing the brakes with the accelerator
and having an opportunist thief thank me
when the diamond rings fall into his pocket,
his hand bouncing of my shoulder with jovial smile
and the faint whisper of “Ta pal” ringing
in my ears
and the police asking me questions
about how much was I speeding,
memories of my first bike catching fire
down Sunderland Avenue as I nearly hit the truck head on.
On the subject of ageing,
I don’t want to get to the age where
just sitting still becomes a bind
and a bother just because I can’t do anything else
but drool uncomfortably when I believe
I used to know who played
for Manchester City as Goalkeeper from nineteen-
forty five
to the present day and yet my mind gropes
like a wet orange ball through the
fingers of Andy Dibble
as I forget each one and the tears of lost games
that I saw suddenly hold
no meaning.
On the subject of ageing,
I don’t want to grow old without you
by my side, for where
is the peace of mind
in having a conversation with the empty space
that used to lay on the sofa,
that used to laugh with a wild snigger
when I made the most feeble of jokes,
nor when the discussion of when met how
greeted who and said what to where;
I don’t want
to be old, even though I feel it in Middle Age,
I don’t want to understand
that life is dull without you.
Ian D. Hall 2015