I may not be the old man I think I am
(It would not be the first time
I’ve made this sort of mistake)
But an entirely other one,
Quieter, shorter, with eyes
Of a quite different but still
Indeterminate shade and attended
By different regrets – not tall gentlemen
With good manners and iron pincers
But rough harridans with clubs
And flint-bladed knives. It may be
That, after a few years in what
I’ll think my grave I’ll hear voices saying
“Good Lord! What’s he doing here?
Move on, you! And be quick about it.”
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