The Saturday poem: Talking to Myself by Dannie Abse

by Dannie Abse

In the mildew of age

all pavements slope uphill

slow slow

towards an exit.

It's late and light allows

the darkest shadow to be born of it.

Courage, the ventriloquist bird cries

(a little god, he is, censor of language)

remember plain Hardy and dandy Yeats

in their inspired wise pre-dotage.

I, old man, in my new timidity,

think how, profligate, I wasted time

– those yawning postponements on rainy days,

those paperhat hours of benign frivolity.

Now Time wastes me and there's hardly time

to fuss for more vascular speech.

The aspen tree trembles as I do

and there are feathers in the wind.

Quick quick

speak, old parrot,

do I not feed you with my life?

• From Speak, Old Parrot , published by Hutchinson, RRP £15. To order a copy for £12 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0870 836 0875 or go to guardian.co.uk/bookshop

• Poetry

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