An attempt at a sonnet aimed at grumpy old people
|Why when decreed at last we come of age
when there is less in front than there is passed,
do grasping hands pause to turn a sullen page
afraid the rising dawn will be the last?
Confounded eyes reflect hues of colour lost
bent ever downward to ponder weary feet,
shuffling a path through a reproachful mist;
a raging storm to sink a youthful fleet.
Think not of age as a cruel brigands curse
raise your eyes, look upon horizons sky
and recall your life’s poem verse by verse;
colours beyond the mist of a fading eye.
Precious life not made bitter by damaged pride,
but sweeter lived through the child inside.