Some mornings when we two get out of bed
my aging body feels unhappy. It moves stiffly.
It whines. It complains bitterly
even after I have given it two cups of coffee.
It just wants to go back to bed and read a book.
I know, I know.
Itีs casting me as the harsh mistress who rides
on the shoulders of this frail dying slave,
cursing it as she flogs it up a steep path
strewn with loose pebbles and thorny plants.
The poor old thing totters on, moaning,
gasping for breath, stumbling over its [1])cane.
Nonsense!
I feel its pain after all and I have coddled it
with pills, podiatrists and expensive shoes.
All Iีm asking it to do is support me
as we move about, mostly on the level,
meeting with friends, buying groceries,
trying to keep fit by walking briskly.
An occasional hill perhaps. No tennis.
But once a year I do require it to go with me
to the mountains I love
and carry me around below to gaze
at the remembered heights we once moved through
with all the careless grace we used to share.
Jane J. Robinson 14/10/09
