I grew up in a mining village where many underground miners lived for only
a few years after they retired, if they lived to retirement. Many did not reach retirement.
I often walk around the village cemetery when visiting the family grave and so many graves reveal the age of school friends who passed away far too early. It’s so sad.
The fate of living to a ‘good old age’ enables us to enjoy retirement and what it offers. However, there comes a time when growing old becomes a challenge. A new expense, dependency on others, a different limiting lifestyle. It’s a bitter sweet time. Friends and family members have passed on, but we are blessed with young children delightfully innocent.
Growing old offers time to enjoy these children and to reflect back to an age so different in every way to that facing our youngsters. We old codgers must realise that this new generation cannot possibly comprehend our past lifetime.
All we can do, if so inclined, is to offer a personal record of that era for future historians.
I was prompted to write a short poem on this subject. In truth, it’s a message to our politicians and those responsible for the care of the elderly. There are too many deaf ears that need syringing!
I hope that readers can identify with the contents of this poem. The poem is in BOOK ONE of POEMS BY AN OLD CODGER on AMAZON BOOKS.
GROWING OLD
Growing old is too expensive,
Hair and teeth, eyes and feet,
Creams and potions, belts and seats.
Growing old is too expensive,
Indigestion, aches and pains,
Healthcare costs and keeping sane.
Growing old is too expensive,
Pensions drained, savings spent,
Heading for life in a cold damp tent.
Growing old is quite a strain,
Conned and scammed is all about,
And we’re too weak to scream and shout.
Growing old cannot be sensed
By those in power and young at heart
Who fiddle as Health and Care is falling apart.
Growing old is coming soon,
To all who live a healthy life,
Better still, if with your wife.
Growing old is nothing new,
Trouble is, it’s back of the queue,
And we’re just left to sit and stew.
But growing old is for the few,
So raise a glass to absent friends.
With aches and pains, few lumps and scars,
We’ve all pulled through and thank our stars,
Just hang on in and sup some jars.
`
Copyright 2023 Neil Davies
If you liked this poem, please tell your friends and family, or better still, buy a copy of my books.
Thank you,
Stay safe.
Neil.