We all wish we could just

stop at – I mean remain

forever – a particular age,

choosing halcyon days,

when we persuaded ourselves

all manner of thing was well.

And talking of halcyon,

I remember a kingfisher

once, mistaking a friend's fishing rod

for a branch, alighting half-a-second

before feeling its whiplash pliancy.

I'd call that a halcyon day, one

from which to blackball

mutability.

Sometimes a whole year is up for it.

I wanted to stay put at fifty. Then there was

counting down to sixty in Cataract Gorge.

And today would be good – the fun

of a new computer, its first letter,

this afternoon its first attempt at poetry:

something foolish to fondly wish

you no further, friend, than seventy,

staying there (I mean here to include

myself) unchanged, unchanging, safe

as Shakespeare who made Time's spoils

despisèd everywhere,

like that tough old Edinburgh rock

which you have built your house upon.