I have not met a morning yet that I cared much about.
an old man slumped, looking down at his boots.
how more bent can a bent spine be?
how much heavier must a cane be,
before it rests against a tree older than itself?;
it is only the young men who skate across frozen ponds
with half-baked ideas about this and that.
this being the tale of the mature cheddar
that being the tale of the impotent brie
young men with hair neatly parted;
young men with new socks and shiny shoes.
no morning wind would dare intrude, nor ask directions from;
wind is only wind, after all.
and what is the worth of a thick winter coat
if cruel winds were wrapped and stored neatly away?
but what of the aging wind who messes only gray hair?
will he strike gold and be gifted the life of gentle breeze?
will he burrow beneath the warm blanket of solace?
or must he,like me, rest beside an aging tree
and wait for breath to catch him up?
and what of the scattered dentures on turbulent seas?
a century has passed since my ship came in.
and I didn\'t care much then for the taste of freshly hooked Trout!
I am as close to the sea now as I choose to be.
and far enough away so as not to swim for my supper;
an old man in old bricks with oddments of useless things.
as useless as my eyes are when a midnight read
dies with each chime of Grandfather Clock
who once put a buckle to my backside!
I often wonder if he remembers me;
I often wonder if he remembers anything at all;
perhaps now his breath is as short as mine.
or do ashes die, as all old things do?;
was it we who once dined at the captains table?
when that old bugger, the sea Trout
reared its\' ugly head from between my gums
and took my nose clean off?
perhaps I will remember tomorrow.
perhaps tomorrow will remember me.
perhaps I will awake and remember the sound of my own voice.
or even the sound of his;
all will be revealed
when we reconvene at the Sunday morning breakfast table.
I have forgotten how eggs enjoy our Sundays together.
sunny side up; I think: