24 June 2013
Ninety-one.
While poets, painters and philosophers
Have tried to lift the veil from what it hides,
I stay as stupid as a stupid child.
Becomingly it is with childish wonder
That I reflect on ninety years of life
And find the drawers of my memory
Increasingly quite difficult to open.
Although sometimes unasked and unexpected
They spring to life and from their folds and files
Thrust up a picture or a torn up essay
To smile at it, to frown, or to repent,
No comments:
Post a Comment