Musings of a Septuagenarian

                               The Lake District

Water, water everywhere, enough to make you blink
with awe and wonder.
It earns its name – born and shaped through years of ice and rain.

Drawn in as always, when on bike or foot, by senses sharp.
A beckoning feast,
I soon submit to all the natural pleasure they impart.

I hear it first – the rush of brook cascading down the beck;
it stirs my heart.
A sound that delves primeval mind for memories lurking deep.

I see it soon – around the bend it grinds the stones so smooth
they almost shine.
The water spits and sparks as on its downward path it falls.

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On Dollywaggon Pike I count the lakes and tarns I see:
they number nine.
And in the distance to the west through haze, I see the sea.

I touch it now – a chill-thrill through my fingers, up my arms
and to my heart.
It sends a shiver up my tingling spine towards my brain.

At last I drink! So pure and sweet upon my lips and tongue –
it tastes divine.
No wine or beer could match its power to quench a thirst so deep.

I end my walk along the stream that runs to Patterdale:
the sun now shines.
Since first I trod these paths in sixty-two not much has changed.

So water water everywhere – it makes me stop to think
of cost and worth;
the things we surely need in life, we often value least.

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Musings of a Septuagenarian

                     Fingers of Fortune

Whilst out today on bike in wind and rain
I pause to ask a question lurking low:
where am I going?
“The elephant in the room” I hear you say;
why start a journey if you do not know
your destination?

You may indeed be right, but I would claim
that life itself is full of many paths
that take us …… where?
A signpost! Yes, that’s surely what I need
to point the way to where I want to go.
But that’s no use.

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From Bedham – yes, I know I’ve come from there,
but that’s no help for me to pinpoint yet
my journey’s end.
A choice in hope, that’s all that I can do;
the route my instinct tells me I should follow –
to Wisborough Green.

In life, it’s surely often much the same:
a choice we make with heart as well as head
to lead us on.
There is, of course a difference ‘tween the two –
on bike it matters little which we choose;
in life it’s key.

The signpost on the road it seems to me,
although it has some use, is nonetheless
a finger of fortune.
On bike, in life there is one common thread
whatever the route; the ultimate destination –
I’m coming home.