Ken's Poetry

Old Man

The gas-fire flame sparks into life
rumbles with the echo of the wind,
cold metalwork in the fire surround
creaks and crackles as the heat soaks through.

Less cold, the room becomes more welcoming,
chilled limbs relax, light’s edges dim;
outside the night draws down the window view
and blinds the room as weariness seeps in.

Sleep comes tip-toe from vacant rooms above,
bends his head, presses his shoulders low;
unheard except by silent ghosted dark
snoring scatters dust on musty air.

His body steals this precious hour away
entraps the mind in dreaming’s glue
whilst all about the house in disarray
wait all the things he wants so much to do.

Age is teaching him to acquiesce
let go life’s dull routine for comfort’s sake,
grinds down the grit of thinking into dreams
and slowly saps the ancient will to wake.