A poem for my inner eight-year-old

inktuition climbing frameIt’s not very often I do my daughter proud

As I struggle to climb a colourful frame or slide.

While she clambers free and easy, giggling long and loud,

My bones feel far too worn, my hips that bit too wide.

But one muddy day through a field freshly ploughed

The only way home was over a fence that could subside.

She cheered me on as I inched slowly over the gate,

Saying: ‘You’re just as good as someone who is eight.’

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