Was it a golden age

of freedom of a certain kind

and were we then the lucky ones

the unchained, in my terms?

The next utopia may be rich and sweet

a virtual paradise perhaps

and honeycombed with images but

from which there is no escape

no vantage point

or cold light of day.

From restless souls are we come

from buccaneers with fast boats

their oak planks...

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As I watch them in the park

spry old couple, ninety odd

hearts re-bored and tooled up

with walking, hearing, seeing aids

a twinkle even in the eye

leaning close, holding hands

these taller, longer-living things

our ever-lengthening DNA string

she blushes, he grins, I wonder who

we must thank?

The gentleman scientist medicine man?

Pioneer, fingering his wai...

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