WE want a man of forty for the job.
One who has enjoyed his little fill of romance.
And suffered intermittent indigestion ever since.
One whose memories are sufficiently cold
successfully to resist the embraces of truancy.
To whom a mountain
no longer looms an ideal
to scramble up and tumble down,
but is an actual thing made of stone
bristling with multitudinous edges
to bark one's shins or break one's neck upon.