On my early walk
I passed a group of musicians
Under the bridge
It sounded like
They were tuning their instruments
In preparation
For a concert
Perhaps a twilight one on the bank
The notes
Bouncing off
each other —Boing boing — like hollow
rubber balls
banjo frogs
amongst the rocks and reeds already
drawing a crowd
I thought I’d sit down with it
Knock back a few beers
Chew the cud of all those years
But I couldn’t get into it
I couldn’t be bothered
I just wanted to get out
No tears, no recriminations,
Start a new life
Go on perhaps my last adventure
A modest one but still.
The blossoms were out
And so was I.
I wasn’t over the hill
Yet.
When people down the track
Ask me, how was it?
I’ll say, read this poem.
This is how it was.
John Malone 