growing old
he looks back to those never again days
of mountain treks,
the sweet bouquet of unfamiliar plants,
brilliant blue skies over bright green pines
and the joyous sounds of the wild.
never again
never again
hours of grueling games with the sour smell
of sweat, the feel of tender grass and
painful gravel and the
carefree laughter of the players.
he lives those days
like visions through fogged glass,
less than real but more than a dream.
he relives the misty images with ink
and colors rendering echoes
seen on dusty mirrors,
evermore in his memory.
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Well done, although now I feel old.
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