Life

Even the most well read young men may not tell you quite how to discern between the desires of the heart

and the headier requirements

of the soul     

Their world remains     

an open mine of possibilities     

so why pay heed to the scream of a jay or search for its blue wing bars     

flashing early     

high in the oaks     

Surely no young blood     

would ever wish     

to stop and wonder     

over such badge of treachery     

when the betrayal of age     

settles dust unseen     

its film invisible     

a lifetime away     

Even educated young women     

once raised with servants,     

dresses and doilies     

might imbibe of modernity     

until it radically dilutes their manners but they seldom forget     

how to spell baby     

or lose that word on their tongue's tip

They do not notice     

not yet     

the click of a crumbling vertebrae     

Young time     

is easily ladled     

from a bottomless crock     

it blushes     

good humoured endearment     

at a father's odd socks     

shooing away his despairing hunt     

for misplaced keys     

always eager to concoct     

some newer fresher thrill     

as yet unshaken     

by the wasteful roulette of genes     

My child time never listened     

to the tap of a blind man's stick     

nor understood the true meaning     

of a gate left open     

when none were ever closed     

although now at least     

hiking spirits     

becomes a simple trick     

It takes only the kindness     

of a lone loki cat     

straying warm across my path     

to purr innocence at the lost     

or maybe just even the thought     

of one more breathless     

impromptu kiss.