Old photographers never die, eh...
They just go out of focus.
Teachers on breath and signalling
with 'Castella Classic' smoke,
the weary world look
through your magnifying glass?
Bull-dog boned and Peter Blake bearded
with a monumental belly charting mountains
of experience, you still come up short, though,
With each birthday, blowing breath
Each death of a candled-cake flame.
The day again born with the moon 'on a loop'
Does it still seem brilliant in all its beginnings
Knee-high memories chase me like a sharp boomerang
Pull at me like caught kite strings.