Do you think, we two, just you and me,
having reached the age of sixty-three,
could find fame by writing poetry.
Or should we continue to compose,
some assorted mild prose,
which then is lost in indistinct obscurity.
Whatever be out hope and our desire,
we always try so hard to thus aspire,
to create a poem that's so exemplary.
And a dream can still persist,
inside our mind's wish-list,
but fades so fast from it, eventually.
Yet never stopping, we just keep compiling,
verse after verse, each one becomes beguiling,
creating our own spoken tapestry,
So on reaching sixty-four,
will we be writing even more,
from our intellect, an untapped treasury.
It's not great works that come always from the young,
there are poets of great merit, their praises sung,
these have deserved to be legendary.
They have composed such noted writes,
each famous name lit up in lights,
because of their sheer talented artistry.
© Ernestine Northover