Turning Forty

Most of us get there, some stumble into it
a few are afraid; those with friends say
they glory in it, the language is ready:

'in your prime'
'the best years'
'life begins . . .'

No one will say to you 'This time next year'
or 'Where were you for the last—?'

They know. Ten years; they call it Life
and you're only half way through. Last year
you were a youngster—thirty-eight, nothing.

Next year Miss Black you'll be thinner,
that small frown will be deeper
you'll cry less often
already you're good at advice for the new lags

your children will grow more strange
you won't sleep any better . . .

Oh my dear friend, think of another story,
find cracks in the pressed steel of the bars,
locks, regulations—go on, do; make yourself up,
give it a go,
take your dream for a walk.