As a long-time purchaser of scarce volumes
by authors gone in the meridian of their glory
and a humble juggler of words myself,
I certainly can appreciate a good book,
but recently I’ve noticed that in order to read,
I have to cycle ten miles; otherwise, I fall
asleep after a mere paragraph or two.

A simple explanation could be boredom,
but who in their right mind would blame the text
when it comes to their favourite titles?
The first signs of ageing are also a possibility,
although I had hoped it would be at least
another decade or so before my autumn came.
Whatever it is, ten miles doesn’t sound so morbid.