Old Age

An unedited poem that I scribbled this evening- enjoy.

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1. Old Age

 

Old Age

Old age is the worn elbows of the head-master’s suit.

 

Old age is the off-white sheets that hang from the widow’s washing-line,

And blow in the half-breeze.

 

Old age is the eyes of a mother as she tucks her child in,

For the very last time.

 

Old age is in the skew-wiff photographs that hang in the hall.

 

Old age is the plastic carrier bags that drift past the children’s playground

And come to rest in the low branches of trees, like birds with broken wings.

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