Dusk

Twenty or so if youth declares,
out of fuel on a parky night
blanked by eery-lit unforgiving
dry stone walls, trudged doggedly on,
mile after mile, youth’s gift to push
home through fear with salmon-like
fortitude, back from the godless moor,
like Scott, I boasted, or Kathy,
without a hint of irony.

Fifty or so if age discloses,
an independent woman timed it wrong;
clinging to cliffs pitched deep in night
petrified last rocky reflections
damned by awareness, inadequacy and
grazed knees; sliding towards
the unforgiving sea, mouthing –
I am old, mistaken, stupid, cold.
ENOUGH. Please rescue me.