The Old Hand

In the wee small hours of the morning
While the whole wide world is fast asleep
You like awake and think about it all
the book, the hand, the lost.
 
When the loneliness just lingers
When the book is calling you on
When the hand in the light looks oh so old
in the wee small hours of the morning.
 
When the sleep is so far distant
And counting sheep is just too hard
In the wee small hours of the morning
just look, and remember and dream...