OLD AGE ROSES

Old age is not a bed of roses,

the potpourri of life fades, its colours 

change, the textures roughen, wrinkles, bends, 

and we descend a little bit towards the ground,

where aches and pains begin in muscles taught,

things just aren't what they ought to be.

Those colours, each they represent experience, 

each one has taken its toll or given joy,

some to meditate on when we're less able, 

others to ignore or hide from usage any more.

Its hard to think of feeling good and young again,

when this and that is going wrong, but then

we stoically stand the race,

at a new less flustered pace, and realise,

that all is now a different life to live, to savour and enjoy,

and if we persevere we can relax into another kind of happiness,

in simplicity its grace, and finally 

find a modicum of peace.