ON THE VERGE

I don’t remember writing this, but the story tells me it was 2012. On the verge of retirement.

Autumn beckons and dark nights fall

Maybe it’s the thought of growing old.

Health in decline,

Prostate’s been irradiated and the heart palpitates.

Near fossilised remnant of a boy.

Hair’s gone grey but no signs of baldness

Should have had a life without reproach.

Mind enthusiastic; body no longer willing to strain.

But we only age in front of the eyes.

No more mountains to conquer.

Maybe they will install escalators

Otherwise we’ll walk on the flat

Soft soles on walking shoes.

Wife’s as old as I am but ageing like good wine.

Mellowing with age.

Doesn’t yell at me anymore.

She’s gone a bit pear-shaped, or so she thinks.

Going a bit blind and wheezes a little.

She will outlast me.

House has just turned twenty-one.

Money pit in the making.

Decided to architecturally update.

Will cost a bomb, or so they say.

Overcapitalising?

Maybe we could try some maintenance.

A childhood friend died a couple of months ago.

A drummer of great skill…almost famous once.

Cancer took his sight, then his will…then his life.

Muscular arms to chicken wings.

An emaciated body, taking space in a hospital.

Met another friend at the funeral.

Say’s I’m on his bucket list.

Wanted to put our original band back together

Before we can only meet as spirits in a cemetery.

Booze and bad manners;

Recollections of childhood.

Delved into the recesses of a back cupboard.

Found my old guitar.

Looks as faded as its owner.

Strings rusty, machine heads pitted.

Cleaned up nicely though.

I’m told it’s a collectors’ item, these days.

 Wife was offered redundancy; superfluous to needs.

Then the offer was retracted.

Now she worries about dispensability.

Engineering designs on computer.

Seems a long way from drawing boards

Lot easier though.

I could never read my own writing.

Young engineer asked to explain “apostrophe”

Said he’d never heard of it.

A couldn’t fathom how.

Maybe it’s a generational thing.

Time to retire soon.

Hope the brain doesn’t calcify.

Maybe we’ll travel.

Grow old disgracefully.

Cellai and Figline, Mazamet and Castres.

Esoteric language from a handbook.

One more trip may see us done.

Time to go.

The dark night is falling.

Guitar in hand to a distant shed.

The mind drifts forty-five years to an identical scenario.

My Generation is the first song for tonight.

Somehow apt.

Who would have a life without reproach?