My hair is silver-grey
And it is my birthday tomorrow.
We all borrow time
But, when young tend not to think
On such things as we drink
The wine.

I will be forty-eight.
Sometimes I glimpse a gate
That opens into a peaceful wood,
Where the blood
Ceases to run
And the sun
Is as one with the dark.

My heart
Beats strong
And I will lose myself in friends, wine and song,
So smile enigmatically and say
“tomorrow is my birthday”.