The sunset years are beckoning me
they whisper my name each night.
Youth softly slips from my fingertips
as my body loses its fight.
Like the snail I move much slower now.
My eyesight fails and all is blurred.
I catch only half of what’s been said
never quite sure I’ve correctly heard.
My seized knees hurt when I climb the stairs.
I puff and groan as I try to stand.
Changes have crept up on me
That never featured in any plans.
But as I slide down the craggy slope
Alone, my outlook is far from grim.
I have great faith in adventures to come
when my earthly light dips and grows dim.
Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: The Infinite Tiredness Of Ageing (available for purchase)