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

Of fifty-four.

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.