Have you noticed how we grow old -
not gradual shifts.
our features stay the same for years,
then time careers
touch turns hair grey, wrinkles our skins,
adds second chins.
Shocked friends compare,
trying not to stare.
The inner clock plays the same tricks -
it barely ticks
ten years, or more,
then jumps a score.
Others may spot the headline stoop,
missing the scoop:
whatís changed, inside.
But you canít hide
from consciousness the brutal, swift
sight of the rift
ahead - too deep
this time, to leap . . .
This is a Minute poem -
written in stanzas of 60 syllables, in a tight rhyming form.
Apparently the form was designed for comic verse, but Tom
has stretched it a bit.
If you have any thoughts on the poem, or on the
form, Tom Vaughan
would be pleased to hear them.