The Run-Out

I wrote this during dinner with friends, after we had been to the theatre together.

Robin Ford, December 2018

We might have ten more years on earth together,
It might be more or less — I just don’t know.
Death’s touch can be as gentle as a feather
Or brutal, like a sudden hammer blow.
We used to count the years since we first entered
This world (by means I cannot comprehend).
But now I find my thinking has been centred
On how much longer can a life extend.
So, should I make a plan for each new minute,
Or make it up while travelling along?
The years that I have left impose a limit
On how much longer I can sing my song.
Perhaps it is enough that each fresh day
I fill with life in my essential way.