I remember a young boy once envious
cried out, on seeing his sisters
'there's only one number on mine'.
A day we celebrate a life given.
When mother delivered and father
lit a cigar.
Like a fresh new morning,
words like future, write the page,
the world is my oyster.
And later, the birthday numbers double,
the doctor visits treble,
the gait, no longer running
up the rugby field, to score that
elusive try, slows down,
and reaction is paused, by caution,
like stepping on scree,
at Croagh Patrick
the concentration, now
more focus, than canvas,
and poetry more haiku
than romantic verse.
And dreams are for sleeping.
A day- a birthday- recall.
birthday is to be,
and future is the waiting.
A happy birthday.
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