Until two minutes ago these were the band,
the evening's star attraction.
Their raucous introduction to the stage
permitted no distraction;

their brand of classic rock and roll had spanned
decades of memories
among their aging fans; their pulsing beat
and vocal harmonies

put smiles on faces, rhythm into feet
and fire into reveries.
Instrumental solos set fingers tapping
and local dignitaries

got up to dance amid good-natured clapping.
The crowd demanded encores
and the band responded, closing their set
to gratifying applause.

Now the low murmur of conversation
seems like silence. No longer the centre
of attention the players start to case
their instruments, dismantle their equipment,
manhandle amps and speakers. No roadies
here for a gig in a pub. This is not
the stadium to which their youthful dreams
aspired. Do they play for the applause,
enjoyment of creating music
or just the money ? The leader signs
the receipt, accepts the cash and shares
it round. Back home soon to a nightcap,
wife and bed. Up for work tomorrow.
But next week has another booking.

Playing tennis for the first time in four months
and running backwards, I tripped over something,
fell on my bum. No doubt funny for some
to see but the bolt of electricity
that shot up my spine made me roll to one side
and back to the other trying to flee the pain.
And then lie still. End of game.

Quickly the other players gathered round
to chip in advice and serve as needed.
One lady even made tentative ground
strokes but due to the crush receded.
For a moment there, through the stand of shins
(and some attractive calves),  I saw
a strange sour-faced old wizened guy waiting
apart at the back of the court.

At last I winced and groaned to my feet,
drove slowly, painfully home;
full length on the sofa gives some relief
but blowing my nose, a cough or sneeze
electocutes my frame.
I roll from the sofa on to my knees
and pray he's punished for being to blame.

Is this the future? A damaged spine?
Or just a foretaste of old age?
Never again the stairs two at a time.
Just bitter helpless rage.
I want to go back to before I fell.
I swear and curse him every day.
It's all that bastard's fault. What the hell
was he doing with a scythe there anyway ?

Ditchling Beacon

Half an hour up here on the hill
is hardly forty days in the desert. Still,
the spread and distance of the view
and some appreciation of the time
geology took to form it will
challenge bigger egos than mine.

Now, however, realising
just how insignificant we are
doesn't conjure up some God King
whose Intelligent Design proceeds
beyond our human understanding.
Instead, the scale of nature feeds

our curiosity to know
exactly what exists and why and how
it works. We've ditched old miracles
like watery feats and even resurrection.
We no longer need to show
mastery of the supernatural.

Discovering even stars are born
and die leaves our eternity forlorn.
Now miracles are that the universe
exists plus so many unplanned
species of life on Earth ( and one
of them begins to understand ).

"Michael." she called from the gate near the bridge.
"Michael." again.  Me ?  Her ?
I caught my breath and let go my spade;
brain fused, I stood still, shocked rigid.

I couldn't quite see her behind the hedge
but that call I'd heard before.
Breathing resumed and consciousness weighed
an event I had not envisaged.

Many a time while I worked on my plot
she had called me to come back home.
Now could a miracle really occur
and I be no longer alone ?

Crazy to think it for even a second;
just wishing can't make things real.
After four years though, fantasy beckoned
and my one wound could heal.

Then the young man who had started plot eight
walked quickly toward the gate.
Another Michael, a different wife
and no return to life.

Perhaps I should have looked away
'averted my gaze' as posh folk say
but I wasn't sure of what I was seeing -
a bit of Nature brought into being?
Ignoring the need for human dating
there on a log two butterflies mating.

A famous poem

It doesn't need to have a name;
it doesn't matter who it's by;
it's what it says that gives it fame
and how it says it rates it high.

50+ sports club

We play at racquet sports
and bowls and swim and socialise
and organise long local walks
and Christmas meals and holidays.

We pan last night's TV,
update each other's families,
discuss the latest films we've seen
and recommend new holidays.

We analyse our ills,
admire the drama group's new play,
dissect our recent restaurant meals,
consider our next holiday.

Now cruises are much favoured -
the almost perfect combination
of foreign places lightly savoured
from quarantined accomodation.

The sky is blue and calm
the sea; we sail along relaxed,
not fearing any likely harm
from winged objects at our backs.

But up ahead they forecast storms;
conditions will deteriorate
and though the evening sun still warms,
there's nothing we can do but wait

as fading power brings concern
when things start to go wrong.
For we can't mend when we can't learn,
no longer being young.

The structure suffers from fatigue;
the frame begins to shake and creak
and though embarrassing to believe,
the vessel starts to leak.

The navigational aids won't work
and worn parts need replacing;
there isn't any way to shirk
the future that we're facing.

The sea ahead is all downhill
but it won't help us if we rage
against the dying light so we'll
just carry on cruising through old age.