The log was cut the winter of last year

Then stacked with others at the rear

Of the garden shed and left to dry 

Fuel and warmth against a wintry sky

Cut by a younger more robust man

Memory whispers saw in hand

Who today is less the man he was

Due to time and nature’s flaws

Gathering these seasoned logs

Gasping an arduous monologue 

As with this desiccated heavy wood

Am I too evolving  as I should.