As children we are taught to take life as a serious of small steps
From _The Elves and the Shoemaker_ to _The Hound of the Baskervilles_
And when we leave school we are expected to have grown up
(But we needn’t throw _Winnie-the-Pooh_ on the fire)
Then as we walk home to get married we may still carry round
Like childhood sweets, a book of verse, a first novel,
With the spine broken and the pages curled, to reassure us
The world is still safe, and literature exists
But by then of course we have learnt that to live at all
Is also and always learning how to lose
Whether this is a love or our own life,
For every book must have its final chapter
And to live and learn to read and write and love,
In the same moment we discover to our dismay
It’s never too late to grow up; but, all too soon
It is far, far too late to be a child again.