“And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘do I dare’ and, ‘do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair –” TS Eliot
Almost fifty-seven …
The limbs begin to stiffen
And the sun, now past its zenith,
Sinks reluctantly below the Western sky
And down the road,
A long way off,
A youth waves fondly, finally,
Quickly now the wind
Stirs in the trees,
Lifts itself above a breeze
And quietly begins to moan.
I feel a chill within the bone.
Somewhat nearer than the boy
A hoary figure comes
Munching its blue gums
An almost fiendish smile.
I stay awhile and watch it click its jaws …
Then I turn my back upon the boy
And go indoors.