I am at my edge.
Having occupied the early and middle,
And am nearing the elder side.
Though I have found little use
Throughout life of this my Steel Rule.
It can not measure the incremental unit,
Which most of us, sense as time.
The fourth dimension being somewhat unlinear.
But this steel has its crude intention,
As an accurate measure of longevity.
My face and fate now turn as one
Toward a distant, dimmed old flame.
Both are equidistant along my route.
It flickers, it is like a fiery beacon.
Then along a retrograde path, ahead
I see my familiar Garden Gate.
This scene fits nicely within my memories.
There is warmth too, where it glows.
I am grounded again, like a high fallen gargoyle.
Being Gothic in outlook, but no longer latin in my ways.
But I would choose to relish my lost latin days
If sand could be made to rise,
And fill again my upper bulb.
However I have spilled my silica grains
Only to realise the idiocy of a lifetime of regret.
If I were ever again, to stand at my Garden Gate
I would this time, be sure to turn the lock.
I would close my eyes and make a wish.
(c) 2018 Christopher Thompson
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