I want you to die of old age,
wishing for one more week,
one more great grandchild,
one more rainy Sunday in
with freshly baked bread
while the garden's gone to weed and seed
since your age-wearied body
is now bent and shuffling.
I want to have left you
well on your way
with generations to follow, each in their time-
greying, bending, wrinkling, even aching,
complaining but living right up to
their final breath of oxygen,
lungs filled with the delicate climate
such a narrow margin, seeming designed
to cradle life.
When you were born, such things seemed reasonable,
not so much to ask
but now...
unless we mend our ways (leaders and all)
you may not see sixty.
I weep for grandchildren
I dare not expect.
YOU ARE READING
Sweeping Winds and Rainbow Beginnings
PoetryThese are a few of my poems. I would prefer to take my time and try to sort the better ones out from the rubbish so it might take me a while to collect. I hope you can stop by and enjoy a poem or several. In poetry (good or bad) we express something...
