I get older and older, and it looms
or seems to. And so I start to wonder,
when will the night descend? In the meantime,
how shall I go on, keep my good comfort
and the remaining pleasures of my days?
My niece in Castlemaine, son in Melbourne,
if asked, might want to house and care for me
(and I could pay them most of my pension).
In both cities, old friends … keep ageing too.
I choose (once more): here. The rivers, mountains …
Written for Poets and Storytellers United, at Friday Writings #200: To the Power of Ten. (I'm not expecting to pop off any time soon, but I'll turn 86 next month, so one does begin to think that the end must be coming a little closer.)
Any 10-line poem is called a decastitch. This specific version, unrhymed and with also 10 syllables per line, is known as the Ten-by-Ten. It's supposed to be one stanza only, but mine fell naturally into two, so I am calling it a Ten-by-Ten variant.
