Growing Old

It's been a revelation, somehow,
                                growing old.
It isn't what you think when you are young.
The days are only partly what they are,
they're also what you've stored up from the past.
Your memory,
           that part of you you cannot summon as you did,
is kicking in unprompted, without leave.
It's redefining:
                meanings, programmes, tasks;
adding layers to the you you've always been.
You still are what you've always known you were,
but part of some great challenge still to come.

They tell you at each turning of your life
(consulting lists the actuaries make)
how much of you looks back and how much on,
              the ratio of past to future tense.


The good and bad of yesterday we thought had gone
have followed us
                to shine a gentler light on where we are:
we are walking through a life from room to room.
It's a house we knew of old
                           though long ago.
Each room brings ancient histories to light
and each new light reflects a different past.
And as the past moves through its days and seasons, 
so do we see the shadows lengthen or reduce.

We read as much into these old projections
as will give them power to turn a life around.