A lost Poet Poet Sonnet

Old Age

        Older age

being old is always ten years ahead: meanwhile
I’ve decided to embrace my present age positively

I walk, don’t run, affecting a dignified lumbering;
if I stumble,I welcome kind people’s consternation

glad of extenuation, I don’t mind being patronised,
as when told, after easiest ramble, ‘you’ve done very well’


with a book, I’m allowed a sedentary slip into slumber,
as catnaps or forty winks lead to longer life

at night I sleep in short bursts, but the interruptions
bring comfort, especially of tastiest night-snacks

prickling twinges of bladder or bowel, though frequent,
are a sign that I’m mainly cued for continence

as a nod to Pilates or yoga, for one minute each day,
I gingerly flex, despite protests, my joints’ hinges

for breath and lungs I stretch, to put on socks and shoes,
or pick up items that have dropped to the floor

for hearing, I’ve tried a number of aids
and, whatever the cost, will find one that works eventually

for sight, after treatments I’m still waiting for,
I’ll have glasses for reading not just large print

when I often forget names of things and people,
I forgive my brain, that’s too full of data

if my personality narrows and I’m short
on memory, attention or temper, I’m determined

to broaden outwards, towards all those others
whose condition and attitude is so much less positive than mine

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