A View From Eighty-Plus

By John Clifford

When this hour chimed before

its tone was more melodious,

sharper in the brassy air.

Ah, yes. Age’s scrawny hand

taps its bones upon the breast

in homage to a treasured past.

(In my day, not too long ago,

everything was thus and so!)

Now, we share the tent with voices,

hear the hours wear away

our mutual illusions.

Rich experience

is poorly stored upon a grate;

its wisdom easily passes

where child impressions wedged.

Thus,

we meet the selves

of all our days

and never leave the years

we left behind.