I hope to be old
As we lean into this future with a mixed forecast
Vision foggy at the edges
I hope my fingers are not too footery,
letting slip the grey-tinged auburn memories
I hope to swim brave, wide strokes - seawater whirlpooling between my tree-knot knuckles
To not sit - stilled - in the overstuffed, floral, margins,
shrouded in medicinal, orthopaedic beige
I hope to have wee chicks at my feet and in my lap
I hope to be old
To see my children’s hands write their own decisive words
(as I remember their backwards Ps and tumble-down Rs)
To see them hold a map they can read, and choose where next – to walk,
Bathed in forest-green, with hopeful kisses of dappled light
I hope to be old
To have breathed the proud sea air so many times that I don’t recall the occasions
To have spoken my grandmother’s words
To have kept what matters
and binned the old receipts; rejected the single-use plastics; recycled the patriarchal values
To have marched with others
To have sung a song of rebellious youth
(And to have kept some of the best stories for myself)
I hope to be old
That these hands cup cobbled knees
After spinning webs of strong iron railings; of soft milk foam
That stitched together deeds, and words
Eyes opened
I hope to be old
To reach back and leave behind a handwritten note,
covered in scratchy spiders legs
– sorry for what we’ve left behind; we tried but, I regret, not enough.