NOTE When you are well into your eighties, you have more time to think and wonder, sometimes, what is beyond. Maybe we’ll go around again. Thinking of this, one day, I wrote this poem.

Waking up each morning is a must
if you want to live to eighty, even plus.
Our lives, skin-tight with minutes, loosely spent,
have tamed our passions,
set our minds, quite unaware
our tiny store of wisdom’s only lent.

For, if we are re-born and come again,
we start from scratch as if we’ve never been.
We make the same mistakes and stumble on
not looking where we’re going,
lose our way. It seems the store
of wisdom that we had, is gone.

And yet, those tiny specks that we had gleaned,
may have leapt across the chasms in between,
like iron-filings inescapably drawn
by the magnet of our souls, to build
eventually, our field of vision;
the reason for our being born.

© Marion Sharville


You, who taught the daffodils to dance
and tip-toed softly through a young girl’s hair,
yet, with a sudden scream of song, you tore
through alleyways and window frames and locks;

tarantella’d with the clothes hung out to dry
and harried all the clouds there in the sky.
You take a breath and in the lull we see
a glimpse of Spring, a tantalising thing

to bait our yearning for some warmth
but you’ve not done with jostling, teasing, yet.
You like to stir things up, with one last fling
before we cross the threshold into Spring.

© Marion Sharville

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