Beware 47 year old men
They drop like squashed flies
slowly recover into another guise
barely half the size
frail on their feet
after years of fierce pursuit, no heat,
cold comfort from their beat.
Beware 47 year old men
They’ve seen it all before
second and third hand, expecting to soar
past open doors
firm in their pride
locked into a harsh and bitter guide
anger waiting to ride.
Beware 47 year old men
who’ve worked hard
for the reward of a faceless guard
set against anything marred.
Those men fight with flawed spirits
bolstered up on rivets
held together for lovers’ visits.
Beware 47 year old men
I should know, should know again
and again how we topple then.
47 year old men, stand up
slow down and humbly sup,
gather your treasures before they leave the cup.
November 1997
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 
Thanks very much for letting me know. Such a maelstrom of feelings.
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I am very moved by this poem.
In 1997 I lost my mother and my second child was born. I was grieving, angry, scared and elated, all at once
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