Thirty To Nine

My thirties years are almost at End,
less than twelve hours remain of them
and there will be no repreive;
no frame to hold the galleries of time,
the hours are at a loss.

Adieu three zero,
goodnight three nine
and all the tinplate terrors inbetween;
the gory days and dour weeks,
the months of much and less
that made for a nettle'd carnival.

Now as the death of ages arrives
to bury a tri hearted chronolgy in a vatican crib,
I hoist my fat onto a new and grander epoch,
turning my cheek from the crush of drowning chapters.
Nine years almost at an end
and from the nine I take two starry glossed parades,
twin hearts gifted from crabby, sea heavy miles...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011