And there is me waking with my brains half clocked to the fact that this is the beginning of my fifty-eighth year.
Fifty-seven years I have completed on this planet and there are still some more to fulfil. It was an indeterminant sentence, somebody must have said. I was never good at grammar so I didn’t question it; I just got born and was expected to make my way without ever knowing where.
So? Fifty-seven down and the next lot standing in front of me like electricity pylons humming away in cold contentment.
They stretch out across some landscape, their tops connected to the rest with their almost singing lines. On a morning such as this, as I open the door, I can hear their distant reminders. They come from where I came from and they go to where I may be going, but on such a morning as this I am as likely to just let their distant voices meander away into whatever horizon they choose whilst I sit and drink tea and listen to the sound of birdsong tweeting through the dawn.
From thirty-four years ago a young poet, who thought his words would make him, still writes these lines:
Time marches on
and there’s me waking brains half clocked
and wondering as you do
about the world in which I’m waking in
About my past all gone
About my world all gone wrong
And about the role I am meant to play
And all the things I need to say
The massive shape of the words
Smashing their heads against the paper
A proper caper
A Batman and Robin laying hands on the Joker
It’s a crime they will not resolve
As it was Time involved
And all these things were up in my head
Not down in Red
And yet my words become more and more
Start making sense
It’s time for the Batcave
It’s time to think
It’s time to alter the links
That soft clink between seconds
Those harsh words between lessons
It’s time to kick some ass
And stand up for myself
I’m not another writer that wants to be left on the shelf.