Hipster beard

I grew a beard to be a hipster. But it was silvery grey, almost invisible. Someone said ‘broken hipster’, another ‘chipped hipster’. A third said a chip dipster sounded like someone who taste-tested ketchup for a living. So the beard went the next day. I sometimes miss it when I muse.

We have grown old

Invecchiati simu, frate.

Yes, you’re right. We have grown old apart
distant in distance and distant in time
but friendship is deeper than years.

We will always be brothers, brother;
our hands still hold the thin blade scars.

I see your face and you are your father
as he was when we were young
and ran and swam and threw stones at the sentries.

We will always be brothers, brother;
our heads still hold the baton scars.

And now we may be old my brother
and our bones may ache in the morning mist
but when they come to cut the trees
the trees which hold the world together
we will be there and we will be waiting
hand in hand and scar to scar.