Crowing Like a Crow Up Into A Scarlet Hayloft Poem by Mark Heathcote

Retirement is like when you're late to a buffet
when all you're best friends are gone
and nothing good is left. And because others
they all went out to draw some fresh air
not wanting to be betrothed with the dead,
the skeletal remains of a spider, still clinging
on to its web, it matters not that you're not
in your grave. And you're still crowing like
a crow up into a scarlet hayloft, not willing to go.

Retirement is that kindling in a hearth fire
that puff of air where life still loves the morning.
Retirement is a moment of walking backwards
casting a wild rose into a warm hand without a score.
Retirement, that's the way it'll be for me
when I retire, I don't care, I won't care
about the day I expire, I'll catch the waves,
those last few waves washed around my feet
and finally, admire the sunset anew.