Ask what is there to hunt or fish for now?

Your hunting days they're fading now
your strength is skinned like a seal-pup
your bones they’re like cotton collars
needing starch to hold them trousers up.

Your ageing like an old loaf of bread
hard and hollow as a drum: Inside gills
are turning green with envy, Blockhead:
Yes, country walks are turning into idylls.

What’s more that walking stick is now a cane
hanging onto your entire aching gnarled frame
ask yourself what’s there to hunt or fish for now?
Now that even your death is a ...snowplough...