The bog cotton plant grows on the margins of bogs and mires across Dartmoor, its fluffy white head looks like a large cotton bud. Ronnie Wood's recent announcement that he is to become a father again at the age of 68 brought to mind Frank Ormsby's poem.
They have the look
of being born old.
Thinning elders among the heather,
trembling in every wind.
My father turns eighty
the spring before my thirteenth birthday.
When I feed him porridge he takes his cap off. His hair,
as it has been all my life, is white, pure white.