...but please tell me if this poem means that I could, even at this advanced age, start to write? I seriously have no idea whether it's formulaic/****/derivative/risible. I know it has loads of clumsy errors. Thank you for any pointers LOVE POEM We met, not in first youth, On Sparken Hill. Bronze leaves Dark stained the summer green. We have grown old. Not yet the old of pincered limbs and More tortured doubts of life unlived, But in this curious waiting room of age. In lonely dark I open up My mindbook filled with joys Of tumbling autumn love When together we bestrode the world And feasted deep at the table of the gods.