Final Days

The brush strokes of the passing day

Paint his life in shades of grey

The clock it ticks each fading hour

As his life withers like a dying flower

 

A road less travelled lies ahead

Finding a place to rest his head

The old brown moss, the limestone comb

The wooded glen where wild cats roam

 

The final doorway to his life appears

Colours saturate the passing years

Red of anger and deep blue pervade

Under the bent willow he’ll find his shade

 

Poem: Tempus Fugit

I was 12 years old and still a boy
You were grey and old
Born while Victoria was still queen
Pictures show you beautiful and bold
In a life of a thousand summers
I watched you age and slip away

I was 22 and nearly a man
You were great and good
My mad and brilliant granddad
Who conjured toys from wire and wood
In a life of a thousand summers
I watched you age and slip away

I was 25 and freshly wed
You were frail and meek
I never knew you young or strong
But your Geordie manner was unique
In a life of a thousand summers
I watched you age and slip away

I was 52 and beaten down
You were my strength and shield
My self-same dad larger than life
Too often I left my love concealed
In a life of a thousand summers
I watched you age and slip away

I am now 58 and have lived a life
In the mirror I am old and grey
The boy I was has long since passed
And time will not delay
In a life of a thousand summers
I know I too will age and slip away