It happened,

on a clear blue sky day, light spring breeze,

mostly green grass beneath crazy coloured spiked shoes.

Twain’s infamous walk interrupted, many times in fact, alongside progeny and comrades, welcoming me newly into the club, ubiquitous in its slack membership.

A day to remember, perhaps, although unremarkable, the rich brew landing familiar on my tongue,

eyes squinting into the light for the thousand time, habits long since learned, still remembered. 

An unusual midweek gathering of friends, embracing, mourning, celebrating a rich table, and those around it inclined.

Familiar and novel, a ribbon dangling in the middle, two sides pulling hard, with no apparent victor.

Evidence of change, in the air, carried along on well worn shoes.

A white cross on red, atop every pole in the little land, marks the occasion,

although not for me, but for her Majesty, I am just along for the ride.

Stepping over the threshold, adorned in all that is familiar, known, wrinkled and shaped with time,

the blue sky beckons, each day now shorter,

more precious in my mind.