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By Paddy Mulern

I'm growing to like this isolation,
I believe I may go out no more,
Feels like I've been out enough,
Now that I am seventy four.

Maybe as far as the garden gate,
Watch the passing scene go by,
You might see me leaning there,
A far off look in my mind's eye.

Glean the news from a passer-by,
Just enough the day to fill,
Close the social chatter down,
Listen to the silence and be still.

Mow the grass, hoe the bed,
Prune a wayward shrub or two,
Sit and chat with the cheeky robin,
That comes almost to my shoe.

When the mind is clear of clutter,
Flotsam and jetsam in the bin,
To wait in tranquil anticipation,
For whatever comes gently in.

A return Perhaps to calmer days,
Before I knew of the World's woes,
Spend my days as they began,
Walk again in my childhood shoes