I know that reaching fifty can be tough,
having topped seventy years myself.
But you and I know there are Sundays
and December snow for you,
Christmas splashed with rain
and bright gardens for me.
Mondays, and green grasses wave to me here
but town squares with bazaars do beckon you.
Tuesdays, with cars, travel, cold, warm tables,
noises of traffic and bells for you
and blue echoed in blue skies down to blue seas
for me.
Wednesdays, husband and sons and meetings with you
but holidays of summer, no winter glories, for my wife and me.
Thursdays, like you, shopping for the 25th is all the go.
I plod in cool air-conditioned comfort;
you plod in boots, thick coats, gloves, fur on the neck.
Fridays, and our week’s horizon’s almost there.
You, in ambassadorial splendour, hostess supreme;
I, in singlet and shorts walking, king of the Range.
Saturday, time for a sonnet or two or three to spin against the years.
I to write such as this vers libre for a friend far-away
known to me intimately yet
not known at all.
Somehow, somewhere there is a voice telling me that this is not folly.
Think of that, Margaret, when the whole world becomes stranger than strange
yet more real than real like one’s Faith, I suppose. Yes … you could say that:
like one’s Faith.
All rights reserved. Ron Wiseman, Mapleton, QLD, Australia. 9th Dec. 07.
Adding your comment:
