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Mar 15
At 67 my days are filled
With poetry and a dog.
The time it takes to wake,
Shower, and walk to the beach.

I pick up pebbles, she sniffs,
As we amble along.
I set my sights on the rock
Where we usually choose to be.

I get my life has led me here
Entertained by my own cliches.
Like Kermit on his stairs,
Half way is always the best place.

The tides are set as usual,
Twice a day to remind us
There are patterns and rhythms
For comfort if needed.

There is conversation too.
The dogs shouts at me,
I throw the ball,
Dependencies are conceded.

I am no old man, of course,
Modern living is kinder
Than to our parents and All.
Indeed, there are miracles -

Extra years and health galore,
Greater chances to be wiser.
Even the choice, if I may say,
To be a little less cynical.

Sea glass is common here,
Rough polished and opaque -
A bit like me these days,
Not shiney, you might say.

But there is beauty, daily.
And reason, make no mistake -
To view life with a certain grace,
And see gold amongst the greys.
Whitby, named by the Vikings of course - White Bay - has 2 miles of gently shelving yellow sand for a beach. Caldey, my seven month Fox Red Retriever, and I go there most days any weather ...
Tommy Randell
Written by
Tommy Randell  66/M/Whitby, N Yorks, UK
(66/M/Whitby, N Yorks, UK)   
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