I write as dry wood

I do not write to be incendiary

I am far too arborial for that.

And though I may delight

In the prospect of the risk

And the danger it attracts,

These days, these autumn days,

I prefer to keep my powder dry.

Neither do I write to sneak.

I have long since

Crept through my last ever brothel,

By now I am beyond being besotted.

My shoes these days are light yet noisy.

I do so easily disturb.

I have in the past tended to step in

Rather than avoid trouble.

Having worn the mantle of the expert

Rather too often,

I conclude I have learned

All the lessons I am able.

I tend these days to be convoluted,

Less studious,

More observational.

I concur more easily with yesterday.

Today I let things be,

Tomorrow, well only the young

Live through today and towards tomorrow.

I myself tend to keep tomorrow at a distance.

It is for youth to chase.

My pursuit which began yesterday

Was for the sole benefit of this day.

Now I crane my head to watch the moments,

As my game is almost up,

Life’s golden treasure trove

Has proven for me to be missing.

My casual efforts being too ineffectual.

Though in life true worth came to me

With and through my children.

It was being given them which made me whole,

When their love became my staple.

I do not write here of short commings,

Those truths are out and long ago.

I write as dry wood

The easier to deminish.

Christopher Thompson (c) 2018

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