On Being 60 Poem by Peter Jones

Shaken by jackdaws, in their fluttering castles,
To steal whistling arrows from forgotten fields,
I hear the blackthorn twistily move amendments
to old postcards of tilted-at windmills;
now quiet.

But ever yet I dance
In the crab-apple innocence of my lanes;
Courtly in calling, with precious breath.
Rich it is to be here
In the wind-feathered morning:
Carving time in the parish of all my days long.

Sailing amongst mazes
I follow in the windswirl of sounds
I no longer hear - but listening still:
Happy as glistening and rare
In the chuckling water of their light:
Glorious then.

And crossing to service in turn,
I bid the days welcome.
We walk out to read the lesson:
The consecrated ground beneath our feet;
Smooth-worn now,
But polished daily.