I am about to embark on a journey with lots of old people. Some of them even older than me, in fact. Walking sticks and wheelchairs. Maybe they just look older than me. I wonder how many feel older than me ….
Anyway, by means of bookmarking the event I dragged out part of a poem I wrote for Our own golden girl a little while ago working under the assumption that she would not object.
Golden years of fading fun
I’m old, I’m told. The setting sun
Is swallowing the final light
I’m cold. I’ve lost the final fight
Forever bold, I bid adieu
Somehow already missing you
A hand to touch. Your heart to keep
Hold me as I go to sleep