I cling to what I’ve got,
fearing my quota has been dealt.
What if it’s true
that morning gold belongs to the young?
The firm fleshed, fresh faced,
forever behind me now.
Have I no duty to keep it with me?
Sparkles for today from yesterday.
Gold shimmers in every year –
it has been sprinkled generously.
But what if there will be no more,
the storeroom closed?
I will only know if I go forward.
Un-dig my dragging heels,
and be lifted out of the sand
allowing distance between then and now.