My breasts are round, still firm.
White threads intertwine with
My hair of night. My thighs
Are no longer tight, but
My pubis still fires up, a
Volcano of flesh at the
Right touch. They call me ma’am
Whilst I look at naughty lingerie.
It’s not easy, oh no, this song
I have so much hunger
For things yet to be done,
So much longing for what
Has come and gone.
I want an electric
Tricycle. I want to be
The weird lady riding it
On the high street. I want to
Knit hats and gloves for babes
Smelling of candy and new skin.
I want to tango with a 30-year old
With a great moustache and I
Want a soft hand holding mine,
As we watch the sunset at summertime.
I want to wear flowers on my head,
And bring fifty-four years of experiences
As an offering to life. I want to dance
All night and give half of my stuff away.
I want to rest and just be in the now,
At the top of the hill from where I can see
Until forever. I want to drink wine
And eat cheese on the beach,
And just smile. And stop worrying
About achievement and success –
What ever I do, let it be done
From a place of joy and peace and
Why the heck no. Oh, easy is not,
This song of fifty-four. And yet
The more I live it, the more I feel alive,
Unafraid of the Shadow, in love with
The Mystery, surrounded by hundreds
Of brothers and sisters singing the same
Song. The song of us, the unfinished
Master works, ready for one more chip,
One more stroke, one more stitch, a last touch.
Let us then sing the song of us,
Sing it high, sing it tall, wildly and blissfully,
This topsy-turvy song of fifty-four.
Whisperer and the Roar: