The Grim Reaper is following you


A notification once came through

Said, “The Grim Reaper is following you.”

I suspected but now I know it’s true.

He’s behind.


So what should an elderly poet do?

It’s hard when you hear he’s following you.

I’m not quitting yet. There’s so much to do.

‘Out my mind!’


I’m running hard; my toughest race yet.

Death’s on my tail; won’t let me forget.

I’ve built a good lead. He won’t catch me yet.

Grim Reaper.


I can’t run for ever; my pace has to drop;

I know he’ll be on me the moment I stop.

I’ll stay fit and healthy, ahead and on top.

Dig deeper.


Forget it Grim Reaper stay well behind

Stay out of my head, don’t mess with my mind.

You may be behind me; I won’t despair.

You can try hard to catch me; 

You’ll be clutching at air.

3 Days Quote Challenge – Day Three – ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight.’

Thanks one final time to TravelBug, for nominating me for the 3 Day Quote Challenge! Check out their entertaining  blog if you haven’t already.

via 3 Days Quote Challenge:-Day


1) Thank the person who nominated you.

2) Post a quote for three consecutive days (1 quote for each day)

3) Share why this quote appeals so much to you.

4) Nominate 3 different bloggers for each day.

My third Quote comes from Welsh poet Dylan Thomas and the most famous Villanelle in the English Language. The refrain of the poem repeated alternately at the end of each verse and in the final stanza is:

“Do not go gently into that good night

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

The poem is set at the bedside of the poet’s dying father who the poet urges not to submit to death passively.

Imminently approaching retirement I take them as an anthem for the later part of my life. I’m older and, hopefully, wiser than I was but there is still so much I want to do and achieve. I have no intention of retiring to the sidelines and watching the world go by.

I want to write and do all the things full time employment didn’t give me time to do. I still run and, while I’m not as quick as I used to be, can still be competitive in my age group. I look forward to birthdays and being promoted to age categories where I can be more competitive still. The motto at our time of life is ‘use it or lose it’. If you don’t stay active muscles waste away and inactivity is all you are fit for.

I’ve travelled quite widely but there’s lots of places I still want to go. I’ve never been to the United States for instance – something I aim to put right later this year.

We have a huge allotment where we grow most of our own fruit and veg. I want to spend more time there enjoying the outdoors rather than be stuck I’m an office behind a PC. When I am at a computer I want to be discovering new things and creating things that please me and hopefully others.

When I’m ready to go I hope I’ll pass on with dignity and acceptance of my fate. I’ve had and aim to have had a good life so I will go gently into the good night but not yet, fate permitting not for a long time yet. While I have health and energy I will rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas :

I nominate:


For SouldierGirl and everyone who has known the grief of losing a child.

My grief first borne was like

A wound fresh made that bled

And nought could stem its  flow.

But as it healed

I’d pick the scab

And want to see it red.

I feared that if it healed you see

I’d have to let you go.


The wound I bore

Has hardened now

I wear it as a scar

I run my fingers down its length

And know an inner strength.