Work in Progress

Although he was eighty six

inside he still felt twenty three.

And what frustrated him most

was that people only noticed

the shell and not the core,

and often said things like:

‘He’s good for his age,’

and he would mutter he’s only

come to the end of the page,

and not the chapter,

under his breath. But truth be told

he didn’t like the look

of the end of the book.

His mind was sharp,

and a bright eye gave hint

of former conquests which

he could own up to now, even

brag about because everyone around

back then was dead, and anyway

he was heading the same way.

Bone and sinew withered so that

the only features recognisable

from old photos were his ears,

and all the artefacts that defined him

lay gathering dust in the spare room:

a set of bowling woods, a snooker cue,

fishing rods and two pairs

of dancing shoes with holes

in the soles, because now

he gets short of breath

half way to the greenhouse

and is confined to the TV set

to contest LBW decisions.

And if there was an injection

to end it; pull out the plug;

available on the NHS, he’d have it now.

But he’s usually feeling better

the next day, because he’s

‘Good for his age.’

John H Davies

21st February 2011