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.