Nearing Fifty (Poetry)

Nearing fifty and still not made my mark
on this, or any other world,
not yet.
Nothing that makes any real difference
and I’m so conscious now
of time passing,
the slow trickle of days diminishing
with the winter light.

A spectator on the edge,
almost joining in,
watching those Death carries off
and missing them,
feeling responsibility
pressing heavy for
someone has to even up the score.

The rules are changing day by day
and I’m not sure I understand
enough of how to play —
boundaries seem indistinct
and goal posts move
behind my back —
the pitch is queer.

One urgent voice below the roar
like rolling surf that deafens me,
cajoles, persuades and leads me on —
it’s now or never, do or die —
nothing to lose
except safe anonymity.
Almost ready,
I prepare for scary stuff.