In deep old age I plan to potter in a garden flat
just down the road, to stumble from room to room;
or outside, patting the swollen trees, survivors of pollard
and amputation – grown cactus-squat and cautious.
My ankles will be the same: fat and pillowy, bone’s
true story hidden beneath the soft anecdotage of fluid,
a long time telling. People write books so quickly now.
From mid-life I’ll be ready with tissues and paracetamol –
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small cures for the long haul. Menthol to chill the pulse
points. Ginger for sickness at sea, and on land.
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