The Poetry Society

Forty-two today, the middle-age I thought

would never come or feel was really here;

strolling down a cobbled street at some point of time

or longitude, rain guttering over steps, a dead swift

washed outstretched to the sea.

 

All night you held my hand, tugged my thumb

like a child's mouth suckling,

one shoulder bare when dawn breezed in;

this morning I have a birthday to surprise me

with another year, my father's face peering

through the bathroom mirror's mist

 

I'm smiling, amazed

at myself still alive, a stranger here,

a boy in my man's body,

walking to the shops to bring back milk,

baguettes still warm under

my blue shirt blooming with rain.