You’re a fine woman
your words are magpies
they are black and white
they are blacker than crows
they are whiter than:
1 clouds in spring
3 snow and lambs and things
your voice is 30 year old single malt
your verses are predators
they swoop like swallows and owls
they dive bomb like seabirds
they hunt in packs like lionesses
they lie in wait like spiders
they have natural rhythm
you are in your prime – the Prime of … …
which is a corny, old fashioned, clichéd way to say it
so I said it.
At forty your back will ache, your eyes will threaten to require correction.
The human body was meant for forty years.
So this is your big chance. One more decade when everything works, in which the certainties of youth and the uncertainties of the twenties are done and over, a decade in which you are primed
and I tell you, I am looking forward to it more than you are.