A Child Considers His Senescene

After Cormac Jones' Essay on Senility

Make no mistake
I know the sort:
They pick blackberries and they drink
To well-intentioned spirits in the morn.
Their coats are always wet with mist;
They used their legs enough to limp.
They have a golden-handled pocket-knife
Studded with horn.
And they write poems beneath a lamp
Designed with panels of the Wild Hunt;
They grow for tea the blue-leaved mint,
And have the sort of knowledge had by that
Old Mariner who made the bride-groom’s guest
Ware of the albatross around his neck.
They stand among the pearly flood
Reading the psalter while the salmon leap,
Their gaiters caked with mud.
I know the sort;
The years seem to add fire to their blood;
Daughters of men they seem to think
The holiest of things that walk.
They sign their letters with red ink,
They choose their horses from good stock.
Make no mistake
I know the sort
I fain would be when I grow up.