The dead weight 
of years
is relieved
in the flash
of tingled joy,
also rushed
over the luckless rapids —

Fortune itself
bears down
on the favoured scale, 
biding the years
 — scar tissues

Years instead of youth
riot in the glades, cackling 
echoes, toadstools fester 
on the fallen logs: 
shadows throw off the sun, 
there always.

The sinking flood
(infantile to the last)
gurgles, the tipped canoe
in the balance
for un-appointed moments more.