Growing old, really old,
Should have been your option
Growing old, really, really old
And your life not put to auction.
Growing old and growing out,
Still somehow wired and ultimately required
To live like the cannon ball, shattering, crashing
Fired, t’ward a target desired.
Slowing cold, really cold,
Locked away in bricks or wood
Slowing cold, really, really cold
And it’s taken all the good.
Slowing cold, to death and breath
And bold and bravely to the waiting breach
And to all of us each,
Who wished you like the splendid sun,
Not in darkness out of reach.
Grant Fenton, 29 August 2017