In the Mediterranean the elderly move from their core,
Back in the UK they bend over double
Hiding what was
The well of youth.
I look at my future
Old drooping skin
Brown in the sun
Rotund bellies
Bared to the world
Without shame
I must accept my place
In this ageing world.
When I'm by the sea
I get unstuck to my beliefs
I held on so dear to in the city
Sometimes we forget where the roots
Of them come from.
Beliefs are emotions reborn
We want the world to know what we believe
So that the right people will admire us
And bask in the warmth of hatred from the ones that are wrong.
They love the small dogs here -
One waddles past, a bow in her hair.
How many lines or wrinkles carry the beliefs of a person?
Shouting down all those who disagreed
Or a silent disapproval of everyone around.
Which skin bent around the frames of loved ones
And held their insides steady against tides of grief?
Is it belief that make them walk up and down the beach?
Their legs look so lived in
The elderly have so much ownership
Over parts of their body
Even if they don't move as well as they used to.
Perhaps they function better.
We always see the sliding scale to death as weakness
But I see no one on this beach looking for something else.