They used to be gymnasts,
Doing shop runs in smooth strokes,
Iceland, petrol station, bank, clothes shop,
All in a few hours,
Now they can only manage an errand or two.
I sat in the back seat aged three,
Staring at the steering wheel,
Wondering how my dad made that big fat box move with just his hands and feet,
Now I hold a license and it means nothing to me.
More lines creep around their mouths and eyes,
A little rounder, a little slower,
Is it true that ‘age ain’t nothing but a number’?
They lay their capes down to take up a crown of grey hair,
And their weakness is laid bare as I become an adult,
What to do with the time I have left,
But to love and forgive,
And live with an awareness of my own frailty.