Getting Old

[I K D R Fennell]

He stands at the bus stop, listing like a ship in a North Sea gale.
The plainess of his war torn face hiding the pain of his existence.
His aura tells it all…

The splendour of the October sunshine is little compensation to a scene made gruesome by the fear it stokes through its unknowing catalyst.

Im afraid of being old…..

The bus arrives, like a good samaritan, but in duty not benevolence.
A pathetic figure slumps forward- clutching the stairwell like a tortured prisoner
climbing the scaffold, aware of his inconvenience to youthfull humanity.
Hurried shoppers stair with thinly veiled annoyance at his palsyed hands shaking
in their search for loose change.

Im afraid of being old…..

He plants his stick to the pavement and firms himself , slightly slipping as he heavies on a crisp yet soden leaf.
The brief pang of kinship he feels through his pleasant exchanges with a stranger disapears with the watery autumn sun.
Distant memories of his sole exchange this day……
Alone he hastens into the encroaching night and trys to harden to the lonliness it brings…..

Im afraid of being old…..