Age discloses nothing. Ask, rather, how many New Moons I have witnessed; how many Full, in how many places. How many sunrises, sunsets. How many miles I have travelled. Upon how many faces have I gazed; into how many eyes, deeply – colours honoured, remembered. How profound has been my sorrow, how exalted my joy. How many scars have I, both of body and heart. How much regret; how much gratitude. How often have I needed help; how often have I asked for it. How much art have I stood before in wonder. How much poetry have I read – blood that is mine but that I have never known. How many tears have I cried, brought to weeping by a lyric, a chord. Ask me, how many words have I written, how many lines of verse, how many have I yet to write. That is how old I am. That is my age.