01 January 2005

A very English take on ageing. Rather than agonise about the final betrayal dealt out to my generation, which should by rights have remained forever young (eternal youth or death – hope I die before I get old), I take a few steps backward.  This poem speaks from a generation that became aged the moment that the male slipped on those baggy flannel trousers & hound’s-tooth sports jacket & the female adorned herself with pearls & twinset.  I intend to age disgracefully &, like Yeats, be a ‘wild old man in the light’.  And I’m sure that I shan’t be alone amongst my peers…     BAD LIGHT STOPPED PLAY   Spadger said (and Tubs agreed) that it's when you get past sixty that mortality’s an issue. Wrists and fingers, one time nifty, crab and stiffen. Easy catches miss you; now, once-demon bowlers slump in deckchairs sipping whisky.   Tubs remarked (and Spadger nodded) that, like smirking boys, you're shifty with the pretty girls. They'll kiss you on acquaintance, but  those misty, distant smiles are painted onto tissue. Fifty-odd and rising, the scoreboard climbs to tickle sixty.   pic from: www.eurocosm.com/.../ Kevin-walsh/KW02lg.jpg 11:01:55 PM    Mmm? []

© Copyright 2005 Dick Jones. Last update: 01/02/2005; 22:41:17.