When young, it’s the longing to be the same,
In speech, in dress, in doing things: ‘Please, please
Let me fit in; let me be neither lame
Nor cleverdick; nothing for them to tease
Or fix upon; nothing exceptional’—
The safety-nets of flock and shoal and herd,
Fading as we grow less conventional,
Armoured beyond the hurt of taunt or word.
Age presents a curious reversal:
So many friends have died and passed away,
Clearly, what is left is no rehearsal,
Those spared must thus have lesser feet of clay—
   ‘Please, please, Lord make exception and encase
   My soul in amber amnesty and grace!’