At end, when it is too late
to start anew.
When every chance to fly
lies like dead birds in your rear view
It was not out of love
nor any childhood dream
That we ran, ignoring every wonder
of life only to wind up here
By accident, and looking up to see
in the vaguely familiar face
of a stranger
every soulful longing of home
since we, last, left it
A sense of familiarity
running behind me as I left
Saying, 'Here, is your coat
you will catch cold'
Life is nothing more than this
a walk around the block when you were seven
At first wonder, and then the drudgery
of again and evermore...
John Tansey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/middle-age-8/
