This is a bit of a sad one inspired by the death of the much loved Australian cricketer and commentator Richie Benaud. I have never been a cricket fan but, for reasons I won’t go into now, I did see a lot of cricket in the eighties and nineties and so saw a lot of Richie on the TV. I’m ashamed to say that when I saw a recent picture of him on the BBC news last night I was shocked at how much he’d aged since I’d last seen him. How stupid of me: he was eighty-four, of course he had aged. The poem is called I Am Still Me. RIP Richie…
I Am Still Me
I am still me inside this worn and wasted body.
Still the man who fought for my country
on green battlefields, serving victory in a cup.
I am the one who made you weep with happiness
and kept you strong when pride was low.
The laconic wit that made you smile and
shake your head is still part of my make-up.
These hands, once prized, may tremble
but I can still hold you in their palms.
Remember me when I am gone
as the man I was, the man I still am.