Age is opportunity no less,
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Morituri Salutamus

In his book Promises to Keep: Thoughts in Old Age, distinguished English academic Richard Hoggart, 92 at the time, wrote most affectingly about the phenomenon of ageing.

I go for a short, late afternoon walk along pavements crowded with schoolchildren of various ages heading for home, most of them continuously laughing and joshing. I do not envy them. It was lovely to be young; only a curmudgeon would begrudge them that part of life. A slight regret and one kept well in check is all I register. I remember that time warmly and try to imagine how they see me now, a slow old man with a stick.

Some make way for me politely. Others look at me as at one from another planet, at which they can never conceive themselves ever arriving. A few look at me as though I am a bit of a nuisance, slowing things down. Hardly any will see me as a survivor because that would link them emotionally with one who was once their age but now occupies a point in space and time towards which they do not yet see themselves slowly moving.

Tolstoy spoke for many when he noted to his diary that ‘old age is the most unexpected of all things that can happen to a man’. It steals up like a burglar in stockinged feet, but with a cosh. Some of us take the pension but ignore the indicated age and suddenly realise, perhaps at 80, that we have become old, as my wife and I did.

And commenting on the pleasure that memories of children and grandchildren bring in age, he sounds a poignant note.

Among the memories (of grandchildren) that stay most firmly in our minds is that of the oldest turning to his mother, at about four, and asking: “Shall I be happy all the days?” Almost heartbreaking. It made her want to hold him tight forever.

Shortly before my mother withdrew into the shady place she inhabited up to her death in 2008, she expressed Tolstoy’s surprise when contemplating the onset of age. Anger and frustration were her principal reactions to having been ambushed by the years. Still entirely on the ball at that point, she talked of an interior self that had arrested at around age 30 but that was now trapped within a body that refused to do her bidding.

Within a few weeks of the conversation in which she expressed her exasperation, she experienced the first of a series of transient ischaemic attacks, or TIAs. These small strokes forced her further and further into that hinterland of consciousness that those who are past the first oddly liberating stages of middle age begin to contemplate increasingly.

Always one to avoid the physical excesses of sport (whilst ready enough to exercise strenuously enough if some extrinsic gain was the goal – as in my current gym attendance), beyond some arthritis, I’ve not become victim to crumbling cartilages, dodgy hip joints or an impacting spine. And although physically I do have to do a great deal more to achieve a good deal less, that interior 40-year-old is maintaining fairly convincing control of the mental and physical extremities. Thus far, the aftermath of sarcoidosis and prostate cancer has wreaked more psychological than material damage and – pro tem at least – I maintain an uneasy (and sometimes violently breached) truce with the demons that whisper of oncoming dereliction, decay and dying*.

Old age, Bette Davis declared, is no place for sissies. With three young children, two grown-up offspring, two grandchildren and a partner younger than myself, my investment in life is substantial. I see old age, physical infirmities notwithstanding, as a further rite of passage no less rich and challenging than what has gone before and what prevails now. If at 92 I can reflect with some of the acuteness of perception and write with the passion that clearly still drove Richard Hoggart at that advanced age then I’ll lean on my cherrywood walking stick and cup my ear and speak from the vital centre that so evidently can prevail.

*Anxiety as a condition – particularly health anxiety – is a topic for separate consideration at some point.


Sadly, my mum’s sustained vigour in age was taken from her and she lingered ignominiously for too long. Shortly before her death, I wrote a poem about an ageing process deprived of choice.


Each morning they organise your bones
into the wheelchair, stack you leaning
out of kilter. Thus I find you, wall-eyed,

feather pulse and mouth ajar. This is
a stillness you are learning as silence
silts up your blood. I name you: ‘Mum’.

I call, quietly at first, as if this were
only sleep and you might resent the passage
interrupted. But your shade is walking

a broken road on the far side of dreams.
I keep my coat on, lean in the doorway,
breathing in the alkalines and salts

that are your presence in this world.
Beyond, through narrow windows, rain
drifts like smoke. The trees shift

their high shoulders, hefting their leaves
like heroes. I can see the lift and fall
of their evergreen breath, the slow,

dispassionate pulse. Such senseless beauty,
propping up the sky as if there were no
tides turning or falling stars, no ashes to dust,

no time at all. You speak – a half-word,
cracked in the middle. Syllables drift
like fumes. Somewhere in that steam

of meaning, the filaments of memory:
the horn’s tip of a lover’s moon,
a song’s dust, the eye’s tail catching,

not quite catching, doorway phantoms,
window ghosts. Grief crosses my mind:
its hydrogen release – from local pain

to lachrymae rerum, all in one ball
of fire. It would be a simple thing
to self-cauterise, here against the lintel,

watching not the rise and fall of your
fish-breath, your insect pulse, but
the immortal trees beyond. Too easy;

but death looked in and turned away,
indifferent, and now it’s down to me,
the blood-bearer, to wish away your life

for you. The house ticks and hums.
A voice calls out, thin and querulous;
another coughs. I turn down your light.

There, against the window, dusk outside,
you are becoming your shadow
cast against the shifting of the trees.

mum 1963


About Dick Jones

I'm a post-retirement Drama teacher, currently working part-time. I have a grown-up son and daughter, three grandchildren and three young children from my second marriage. I write - principally poetry but prose too, both fitfully published. My poetry collection Ancient Lights is published by Phoenicia Publishing (www.phoeniciapublishing.com) and my translation of Blaise Cendrars' 'Trans-Siberian Prosody and Little Jeanne from France' (illustrated by my friend, the artist, writer and long-time blogger Natalie d'Arbeloff) is published by Old Stile Press (www.oldstilepress.com). I play bass guitar & bouzouki in the song-based acoustic/electric trio Moorby Jones, playing entirely original material. https://www.facebook.com/moorbyjones?ref=aymt_homepage_panel http://www.moorbyjones.net/) https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=MOORBY+JONES spotify:artist:07MDD5MK9MnRGSEZwbsas9 I have a dormant blog with posts going back to 2004 at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages - http://patteran.typepad.com - and I'm a radio ham. My callsign is G0EUV
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3 Responses to

  1. sackerson says:

    I remember from flying in a balloon that over a certain height you’re not really aware that you’re descending, without reference to an altimeter. I sometimes chillingly visualize life as a parachuteless fall from an aeroplane on an imaginary planet where you can spend 70-80 (or more) years falling through the air before you hit the ground. For the first few decades you can almost pretend the ground’s not there. Then you see the clouds coming up… Etbloodycetera.

    On a more positive note, I recently went to look at Barbara Hepworth’s work at the Hepworth Wakefield gallery (definitely worth a visit if you’re ever traveling North). A lot of emphasis was placed on how she felt she had achieved the aspirations of her youth in the last decade of her life (although of course she didn’t know that’s what it was!). Inspiring stuff.

  2. Jim Murdoch says:

    Oldness. Our perception of what that means changes all the time. When you’re five sixteen is ancient. When I wrote my first novel I was in my mid-thirties and made my protagonist, a man I saw as waiting on death, fifty-three. I remember reaching fifty-three and wondering what I’d been thinking. I wasn’t old. But I wasn’t young either. I had a wife who was sixty-five and in receipt of the State Pension commonly known as ‘Old Age Pension’ so she had to be old but it was a description she resisted and continues to resist despite the mounting evidence to the contrary; she walks with a stick, often two and occasionally a walking frame. Hard to argue you’re not old under these circumstances. And yet I often feel as old as Carrie. I wish she felt as young as me but even with all the pain medication that’s never going to happen. She is old. Some would say I’m middle-aged. The age for that ranges from forty to sixty but not that many make it much past eighty even nowadays and when was the last hundred-and-twenty-year-old you met? Neither of my parents reached eighty and I’m not banking on it. I expect to live until I’m seventy-five (and by ‘expect’ I mean I’ll be miffed if I die younger than that); anything else is a bonus which I will not sniff at unless my quality of life stinks which is a whole other issue. If I was middle-aged at thirty-seven how long before I’m officially old? I’ve always looked older than I am. Ever since I was at school. I remember being made to pay full fare on a bus whilst still at school whereas my companion, who was a year out of school at least, got on for half-fare. The last time I asked someone to guess my age I was forty-eight and the girl thought I was already a pensioner. Says it all really. If I am old all I can say is that I don’t mind it. I mind the aches and pains but as I’ve never been the healthiest person I’ve pretty much always ached. You’d have thought I’d have got used to it by now but oddly enough I still resent my body for not being more vital. I can’t say I’m especially anxious about it but, as you say, that’s a topic for another day.

  3. Lucy says:

    Thanks Dick, I appreciated that. There’s a beauty in your mother’s face in that second picture, all the same.

    Reading Jim’s comment too, I wonder if perhaps age gap marriages lead one to reflect a little differently on such things. I look at Tom with surprise sometimes, and that I’m now nearing the age he was when we first met, but he doesn’t seem to have changed at all. I find myself wondering if just not acknowledging the onset of age, or at least the shortening of time left, will postpone the inevitable, if I’m helping to keep him young, or if I can’t bargain away some of my own time in exchange for gaining him some extra… a whimsical notion of course but one I’m prepared to entertain. I think denial can be quite benign sometimes! Trouble is time does accelerate too, just when you want it to slow down.

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