Keith Sinclair, "Sonnet from Below the Age Gap"
 


The middle-elderly have wrinkled necks
like crocodile skins or war-time armour plating;
their nostrils and ear-holes begin to bristle like boars'.
All night they snout and root in the lily swamp
yet never seem to sleep like hearty eaters.

Though some burnt out by alcoholic amps
litter the plain they mostly go straight on,
their eyes lit up by eager, cruel fires
and chomp at anything that's in the way,


ingesting girls, great juicy steaks or dreams,
ferns, trees-all fuels-and belch away
while all around smoking horizons crumple.
The middling-aged advance like beaters driving game
or a line of Tiger tanks chewing up Europe.