My time is slowly passing.
Age is creeping, not lasting.
I’m frail and growing older.
My body shivers when it’s colder.
And sweats like hell, in the heat.
My mind is feeble and weak.
I don’t seem to remember.
Whether it’s March, April, or September.
Here I sit, what am I doing.
There I look, where am I going.
There I ask, what’s for tea my dear.
Oh, I forgot, she’s not here.
Well best I retire to bed.
And wrest this weary head.
Under a linen sheet, like a hood.
Laying here, on this piece of wood
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
You can read more of Ivor’s writing at Ivor.Plumber/Poet