Galloping Children

Galloping children

The ageing grey tenement released

it’s children on a fine day; bright, clear skies

and gentle breezes, one of those perfect days

in childhood, often recalled in fond

memories.  A white van pulled up and

my father and uncle, finished their

workday early for once, simply scooped

up all who played on the street, bundled

them in the back where they bounced around

happy in the mystery of where they

might land.  When their drive was done, released

once more, they looked around, wide eyed.

A stream rushed and tumbled over great

granite rocks while Scots pines soared so tall

and proud.  Specks of white fluff moved slowly

across the green heights of the hills above.

“They’re sheep,” my father explained before

turning to his brother, adding, “children

need a gallop every now and then.”


Who am I

Who am I, now?

I am beyond the point of no return,

more than half a century.

I am not young and I am not old,

(these things are, they say,

in the end, mere numbers.)

I am father,

sometimes mother,

my own parents gone,

yet I am still son.

I am uncle, cousin, brother,

and what are these too but

varying degrees of relative?

Names and labels sometimes fitting

but I am not a cheap portrait,

finalised in one hasty sitting.

No, no, my palette

demands much more

if I am to answer this question

with a truly perfect score.

I ask myself again, repeating the question,

who am I, now?

I am lover, fiancé, gardener, guitarist,

I am writer, widower, poet and artist.

I am blood pressure gone awry,

I am philosopher puzzling why.

I am soon to be retired,

fearful, hopeful,

often tired.

I am all of these and so much more,

these words describe, they name,

they change, they stay the same.

Who am I now?

as I always was

and will be,





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