You're Old

People say...You're old,
Your hair is grey.
There's limping in your walk,
Your footsteps sway.

No longer do you laugh,
And play in fun.
All the time...you work,
You have to get it done.

There's aching in your knees,
And in your hurried rush.
You never stand a moment,
Just to hear the thrush.

Your stride is not so eager,
In years of late.
You pause for just a moment,
And then...you wait.

People say...you're getting old,
You are standing on the brink.
Was it only them supposing,
For I hadn't stopped to think.


E.P. 1908 - 1989