What is this life with time to spare,
There’s too much time to stand and stare.
No breakfast rushed, no traffic race
No bureaucrat’s unsmiling face.
No prim grey suit worn everyday,
No shiny shoes your pride display.
No ceaseless calls on telephone,
Endless demands. At last alone.
No “Can’t you do this, yesterday.”
You now can idle the livelong day.
There’s much to do, you’ll not be bored,
Old friends renew, too long ignored.
Past hobbies sought, with grim intent,
Will pass the hours without lament.
Seek ventures new, fresh pastures find,
Ideas compete to fill the mind.
But, old bones ache, disused joints creak,
Inertia reigns, recall is weak.
Where hides that grasp, where is that flare,
Where is that zest beyond compare?
Distractions: music, theatre, sport,
Enthral but briefly, pleasure thwart.
Less fevered passion, excitement dulled,
Your former joys seem now annulled.
The downcast gaze, enfeebled mind,
Forlorn, unwanted, left behind.
The clock’s tick slow, time labours on,
Indifference reigns where fervour won.
“Dejected, down,” the young declare.
They have no time to stand and stare.
Photography by Andrew Blight