A Fall Can Be a Little Thing

A fall can be a little thing
When bones are young and blood is thick —
Hardly noticed in your Spring
A fall can be.

          But time will play its usual trick:
          Your body struggles to take wing,
          Your mind still thinks itself a chick,

And when you walk, your arms aswing,
Disdaining a supporting stick,
You find how dangerous a thing
A fall can be.

Bedtimes

The pleasure gained from getting into bed,
          Relaxing into softness with a sigh,
          When I was young came only once a night,
And then oblivion till darkness fled.

But now thrice nightly I am forced to tread
          The path to loo and back to where I lie —
          An aging bladder serves to multiply
The pleasure gained from getting into bed.

Peter J. King, born and brought up in Boston, Lincolnshire, now lives in the Oxfordshire Cotswolds. He has been widely published in journals and anthologies; his latest collection is Ghost Webs (The Calliope Script). Aside from his own poetry, he also translates, mainly from modern Greek (with Andrea Christofidou) and German, writes short prose, and paints.