In the hinterland between youth and middle age,
Spreading, greying, neither spread or greyed,
Some idealistic saplings still growing
Reality not yet cut through the thicket.
Gazing down at the generation coming,
To them impossibly old, impossibly powerful
Yet so weak in the face of life’s disasters.
The solution, maybe to plant the same ideals?
Thank you for your comment on my blog. I like your poetry, I don't normally enjoy poems, but this is good
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