Sometimes I like to compare myself to an old man.
Note how I did not say old woman – for old women have a
special quality to them
which old men do not:
you can see it if you brush away the dust,
buried inside them is a treasure
chest where
pearls of wisdom remain.
But like a cranky old man, who has known too much of the world
to carry any more of it with him,
I buried my treasure chest long ago.
But when I see my breath crystallise before my eyes
on those cold winter walks,
I carry those crystals and think
I may have some treasures left after all.
