It seems to me I’m stupid, dim witted, dozy, daft
As age begins to rob me of the essence of my craft.
The gift I have of language, developed over years
Is gradually eroding, one of my greatest fears.
I try in vain to capture, and use, the perfect word
But similes escape me, fly, like a mocking bird.
A river of my best ideas flows gently out to sea
A metaphor for loss that shows what’s happening to me.
No longer with the freedom to choose, invent and write
Vocabulary fading, my mind losing the fight
To cling on to my memory, to produce and create
A work that is commended, but I fear it is too late.