I remember a young boy once envious <br /> cried out, on seeing his sisters <br /> birthday card, <br />'there's only one number on mine'. <br />A day we celebrate a life given. <br />When mother delivered and father <br />lit a cigar. <br />Like a fresh new morning, <br />words like future, write the page, <br />the world is my oyster. <br />And later, the birthday numbers double, <br />the doctor visits treble, <br />the gait, no longer running <br />up the rugby field, to score that <br />elusive try, slows down, <br />and reaction is paused, by caution, <br />like stepping on scree, <br /> at Croagh Patrick <br />the concentration, now <br />more focus, than canvas, <br />and poetry more haiku <br /> than romantic verse. <br /> And dreams are for sleeping. <br />A day- a birthday- recall. <br /> <br />birthday is to be, <br />and future is the waiting. <br />A happy birthday.<br /><br />Bernard Kennedy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/birthday-poem-12/
