The things I learned when I was seven and eighty five

The year my grandad died; I met a troll crossing a bridge the day I became a scout. I stowed aboard a pirate’s ship of which there was no doubt. The captain wore a wiry beard and preferred to swish and shout. I foraged for a pot of gold and made a pot of tea. I learned to laugh, sing and cry and ponder why we go to heaven. I learned all this in my grandma’s stories the year I was seven.

 

Summoning fourscore and five I crawl out of my bed – age is golden I’ve heard it said. I fish my teeth from a whiskey glass and pull my trousers over my... hips. My skin no longer fits. As I get smaller so does print. I curl on my specs and head for the loo. I sit and ponder; we learn too late as the night falls how close we came to distant shores. Snatching at the sky, desperate to see a sliver of hope of a world that could be. Don’t give in if the pace is slow success achieved with another blow. Regardless, I’m able to grin is it too early for a sip of whiskey or gin.