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I wrote this lying on the floor of the spare room. The room that would later become the first bedroom of both of my children and is also the room where I sit now as I type, seventeen years later.

I had noticed that the old people that I knew had come to consider themselves disqualified in the light of the rapidly changing technological society around them. I wanted a role model of where to go next in life but the older people seemed to have abdicated their rightful place of wisdom. So I wrote these lyrics drawing on what I saw was the best from each age of man. So that I had somewhere to go in life. At that time I was moving into line two of the second verse. Now my next stop is line six of the second verse.

Rob Bathurst wrote the music first in this case.

I think if all my other songs were swept away I would keep this one as most my own.

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'The Art of Growing Old'                   by Martin Day

The flawless trust of infancy,
The wonder of discovery,
And bigger hands to carry me,
It's the art of growing old.
The energy and fun of youth,
Zealous in pursuit of truth,
Enthusiasm, Bullet-proof,
It's the art of growing old.

        Time, lapping at my feet.
        I'm walking in the sand
        Showing those I meet
        The treasures in my hand,
        Gathered from my life along the way.
        When the fullness of the sea
        Comes in to cover me,
        I'll rise to the eternal holiday, an everlasting holiday.

Adulthood authority,
The means for generosity,
And little ones that look like me,
It's the art of growing old.
The wisdom of retiring years,
As Earth recedes and Heaven nears,
The fog lifts and perspective clears,
It's the art of growing old.

Spiting out what can't be chewed,
Embracing change when change is due,
And knowing who you answer to,
It's the art of growing old.
Blow convention, swallow pride,
Cynicism, turn aside,
Revere the one they crucified,
It's the art of growing old.

© M Day 5-Apr-1991














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