In age, so often, life, it seems,
is like a leaky boat.
Our forward progress slows and swings
with the tide,
its ebb and flow.
For want of caulking
bilges seep and timbers creak
with every swing and turn
but still we cut between the waves,
while tacking with the flow.
And though it may seem strange to some
who wish to race ahead,
the more I travel now, I think,
I’d rather travel slow.
The harbour will come soon enough,
to moor and come to rest,
for now a passage,
calm and slow,
would seem much better blessed.
© Andrew Pratt 9/3/2020 – in response to an email from Claire Wilson
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