Abiding Rarity Of Hair Poem by jim hogg

It's not that I'm not envious,
of older guys with bushy manes.
It couldn't be more obvious:
my hair grows rare and I'm still vain.

This niggling hint of envy comes
nostalgically with memories,
of plumes of hair too thick to brush,
and fond mirage of yesterdays.

Those yesterdays when I last rowed
a rowing boat around the Mull
from Portankil along the shore
beneath the cliff, beneath the gulls;

and hauled the creels from end to end
when I was less than seventeen.
It's maybe time to start again
with just a rowing boat and sweeps

without regrets and worldly cares
in this new world that's forming now
- this everlasting present where
the past and future take a bow,

and, sans ambition, leave the stage,
to maybe kindness, maybe love;
a gradual turning of the page;
as if I think I've said enough!