At Beachy Head

The coach climbed up to Beachy Head
Where billowy green Downs
End in a slice of dazzling white chalk.
Offshore a lighthouse stands
As if blown out to sea —
Landing the right way up — feet first.

Our driver helped me climb the turf,
Prohibiting the edge.
Perhaps he thought me bent on suicide?
But though the wind blew hard
And I am old and frail,
I had no mind for death that day,
Simply rejoiced in being there
With gleaming cliff and shimmering sea,
Proud to be able still to keep my balance.

I planned for three more years —
Composed a hundredth birthday speech
Thanking my guests for being my friends
These five and thirty years,
Without them how would those years
Have been endurable?