Thursday, 6 May 2010


I took a breath one day, began

to breathe in 1953

(after the war and victory)

a little man

unable to see.

Since then I’ve breathed a lot,

managed to shout,

escaped my cot,

run about

and used my lungs in cold and hot.

My chest has risen, sunk.

I’ve walked and swum and loved and slept

and all the while I’ve kept

on breathing in and talking junk

- on my out-breath - words inept.

But now I’ve started to yawn

en route to 2033

worrying (only occasionally)

about just when a little man

will take a final in-breath-out. We’ll see.

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