A poem by J. Barrie Shepherd.

Photo by Wynand Uys on Unsplash

“Tomorrow to fresh fields and pastures new.” –

Aging in place … or out of place
has little or no appeal for me.
Given the choice, I’d much prefer to “youth:”
to plunge my way back upstream
like a fierce mating salmon
thrusting against onrushing torrents,
and toward the goal of an ever-livening
vigor and mobility of flesh, fresh new curiosity
of mind, spirit too, renewed appetite for
all that mystic life can yet reveal.

But that is not “on offer,” as they say
in the UK. Never was, far back as I can tell.
This is a one-way proposition — take it
or leave it. And even if and when
you take it, you have to leave it in the end.
So here I stand – or sit these days whenever
possible – clinging, forlorn, to the fast-receding
feathered tail of time’s torn, ragged arrow.