Forty

You know you’re old
when your children reach forty –
it’s your last chapter
if they’re mid-story.

When they start to go grey
and/or wrinkled/stooped/bald
it’s hard not to be
time-conscious, appalled –

just what were you thinking
when you gave them life
and doomed them to die?
And as an aside

to mark as they age
your own decline
as you approach
the finishing line . . . .

Not that not having
kids means eternal
youth, but it puts off
the tiresome internal

knowledge that love
always comes with a price –
or in this case a death’s head
to be precise.

Tom Vaughan

 
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Tom Vaughan  would be pleased to hear them