The evening chatter bubbles to the ceiling,
a head of froth above the effervescent
jollity of alcohol. The pints of beer
and glasses of white wine bob up and down
upon the swell where balding heads of men
and ladies' coiffured grey rock gently in
agreement. Eddies and undercurrents swirl.
Though smartly dressed, few women risk revealing
cleavage. Well-chosen clothes still reminiscent
of younger times aim to disguise the year
of birth and sagging body. The men around
all smile and joke, enjoying once again
a brief flirtation, vaguely remembering
the youthful challenge of a pretty girl.
This is a landlocked bay protected from
the rough uncaring sea beyond. The tides
still rise and fall but wise discretion hides
all hopes of voyages of discovery.
Newcomers test the water at the edge;
then braver ones cast free, drifting among
the islands of conversation, to be swung
ashore, they hope, on some inviting beach.
The organisers act as lifeguards for
those who lack a foothhold, out of their depth,
but what of those like me who can't accept
this crumbling harbour as marina ?
For we are the debris of wrecked relationships,
the jetsam of separation and divorce,
flotsam of partner's death or else, of course,
long independence sinking into loneliness.
We gather in the life of hope eternal
but what do we gather for ? Love is a leap
too far, a solitary thought some keep
well hidden in a bottom drawer.
Our hormones make us seek the other sex.
While men still fantasise in locked rooms
of their minds, women can dream of brides and grooms.
We want to salvage what's left of our lives;
we have a deep need not to be alone;
we want someone to fill our days and nights
with meaning but without those silly fights;
companionship is what we'd settle for.
The hope of happiness is never past;
I hope that all get what they want at last
but I am sinking miles out at sea
weighed down by orphaned memories. For me,
adrift in an ocean beyond safe shores,
old age is drowning, clutching no straws.
