Years And Years

The lithe years, to be admired

for their rare vintage.

The mumbling years, yet to come.

And this last year, squatting

like a horse sitting on its hind,

awkward and unnatural.

A year of bone china breaking

and cultivated bloodstone.

A year rattled and rumpled,

my time spent ducking under

a low beam and falling branches,

the others, in their fine apparel,

living sit-com lives of operatic splendour,

affording sentiments like greeting cards,

the likes of I a chimneysweep,

a poacher on the outskirts of civility,

the one they send for to be sent away.

Who calls, but they will not answer.

Bruce Mcrae