I have reached an age where I don’t sleep
A lot, she said, except perhaps a little
After lunch, or sometimes in the morning
While I wait for that Norwegian girl
Who comes to do my plants and pots and pans
And brings me those old fashioned custard tarts.
And when she leaves I might just close my eyes
To take a moment’s rest, or two, before
I start another chapter of this book.
I will sit up and read all night, you know,
As I have reached an age where I don’t sleep
Except perhaps a little, after lunch,
Or sometimes in the morning, while I wait.

We are small men, both of us,
For all our these won’t happen dreams
That we write down in Moleskine notebooks
Bought in last year’s sales at bottom dollar,
Both of us in ‘high performance’ coats with waterproof taped seams
And hoods that fold away inside the collar,
Both in don’t quite fit me supermarket jeans that don’t improve our looks.
But both of us are poets, each in our own way,
Though neither of us, really, has very much to say.
We are small men, both of us,
But both of us are poets, each in our own way.

It’s human nature to look back
With fondness down the winding track
That brought us here from long ago
And leads to somewhere we don’t know.

It’s human nature to take fright
At every dimming of the light
That speaks to us of time run short
And bids us give each day more thought.

And when the moment duly comes,
When we each hear our marching drums,
Let no one say we were not warned
That each day lost is one day mourned.