Stoic

STOIC.

Zealot of the crazy paving or pavement.
To the short-sighted pensioner a pointless pettifog.
Stoic though not reckless in staccato-like procession.
Cane waver in a fervent frosty, sweep.
Age is neither plight nor hindrance only skewed perception.
Rendez-vous in a roundabout place to spite dementia.
Window flung wide open by gutless, grey haired neighbour.
Nosey gossip at the cutting edge of rumour.
Condescension from my own breed.
Cheerful wave from care free youth on bike.
Wind borne words of kindness make the early morning chill less harrowing.
Tread marks of a different kind await us all I fear.
Intuition my one and only compass at this point.
At every point.
Be alert. 
Mind the icy patch astride the curb.
Ah, there she is, her wrinkled outline in feint colour.
Madam's crutches like my cane, a badge of honour.
Soul mate of a certain vintage.
A date with time.