Old Age

The panting sun can sap no more
But rests above the pallid sea.
Above the tiny, bustling shore,
I close my eyes in memory.
The cool verandah, tiled and white,
Smiles down upon the frantic ants
That rush about, as in a trance,
Preparing for the fear of night.
And high upon my marbled throne,
I play a jaunty xylophone.

The lilting tune is borne upon
The balmy and massaging breeze.
For now the burning heat has gone,
The fronds dance lightly ‘pon the trees.
Old age, I cry, is not a cell,
A dark, enclosed and gloomy place.
The evening sun laps at my face
And oils it in a liquid gel.
And near the harbour, people tut,
Ascending that steep hill on foot.