ON TURNING 70


SEVENTY

Like Paters and Glorias on a Rosary beads

the O birthdays.

I swanned up to the third,

bruised an ankle on the forth,

the main heartaches undergone by the fifth.

The beads between number the human lot

of joy and misery, just about evening out.

Forgotten much, forgiven a lot.

New mysteries await as I pass the seven-O.

Arrived at the bible allocation,

I adopt my Father’s attitude:

“at three score and ten, you’re on overtime”

Glory be, to the maybe ten or more

for those who are strong.

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