The Journey In His Hands

 

Once he was the little child

Whose mother pulled him in

To squeeze with hugs and kisses

As he grinned his sheepish grin

​

A loving softness to her touch

Of cheeks and arms and hands

The world awash in innocence

He was sheltered from its plans

​

Complexity’s slow-moving front

Crept in by fractions every day

She slowly aged before his eyes

He learned time must have its say

​

It’s the wind that picks up power

Lays wilt and wither to its path

No courage, strength, nor spirit

Could withstand it’s rolling wrath

​

Tomorrows worn by yesterdays

Her pale visage frail and gaunt

Unveiled like an apparition

Stealing memories on its haunt

​

She became the child he once was

Grew more dependent on his care

And one by one the memories

Were no longer hers to share

​

Curse the criminality of time

He could not prevent the theft

Of vibrancy from hope and light

There was so little of it left

​

His journey traced the circle

All life dwells beneath same sky

Sunlight turns to mist and fog

As the years keep racing by

​

Near the precipice approaching

He wisely smiles and understands

Veins he sees through wrinkled skin

Now map the journey in his hands

​

           s. paul  (June 2021)