Old Father Time

I often wish that just for once

he’d overlook someone down here,

as he wanders scything round his fields,

that someone could live to a hundred and fifty,

or more.

But no,

whether by a fall, or pneumonia in the cold winter,

or a lack of will to stay,

each of us goes,

and even those who linger,

and seem immune,

he takes in the end, in some ordinary way.

Apparently there are a few

in hidden valleys of Kashmir,

or in huts on the hills of Ecuador,

who live till a hundred years have passed,

but he wanders up that way at last,

and gathers them in too.

Some stand out,

are clear to see,

and his sickle fells them early.

But even those who are flat,

who lie criss-crossed and low,

are hooked out with a smile,

and snipped off finally.

No, there is none,

who can live on and on,

and reward a flight of fancy.

In the end we all will fall,

for slowly as he goes,

sweeping his scythe,

with all the time in the world,

he takes us all.

Poem every Monday