Song of Fifty-four

mature woman


K. Barratt

My breasts are round, still firm.

White threads intertwine with

My hair of night. My thighs

Are no longer slim, but

My pubis still fires up, a

Volcano of flesh, erupting at the

Right, rhythmic touch.

And It’s not easy, oh no, this song

Of fifty-four.

I have so much hunger

For things yet to be done,

So much longing for what

Has come and gone.

And there is so much that I wish.

I want an electric

Tricycle. With a basket, for a dog.

I desire to be the weird lady riding it

On the high street and London Road.

I wish to knit hats and gloves for babes

Smelling of candy and new skin.

I want to tango with a 30-year old

With a great moustache and

A shirt of silk. And I wish

For a weathered hand holding mine,

As we watch the sunset at summertime.

I desire to wear flowers on my head,

And bring fifty-four years of experiences

As an offering to the temple of life.

I want to dance all night

And give half of my stuff away.

I wish to rest and just be in the now,

At the top of the hill from where I can see

Until forever. I want to drink wine

And eat cheese on the beach,

And just smile. And stop worrying

About achievement and success –

Whatever I do, let it be done

From a place of joy and peace and

What the heck. Oh, easy is not,

This song of fifty-four. And yet

The more I live it, the more I feel alive,

Unafraid of the Shadow, in love with

The Mystery, surrounded by hundreds

Of brothers and sisters singing the same

Song. The song of us, the unfinished

Master works, ready for one more chip,

One more stroke, one more stitch, a last touch.

Let us then sing the song of us,

Sing it high, sing it tall, wildly and blissfully,

This topsy-turvy song of fifty-four.



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