Old Man Poem by St.Claire Redwood

Gnarled hands, shaking, grip the worn stick
Groping the way for blind eyes,
This man knows nothing but his pain
And his sorrow for lost friends!

He finds a bench in the cool shade
And there rests his aching legs,
Tears trickle from his sightless eyes
For the young people who die.

Time goes marching by so slowly
Meaning in his life has gone
And yet still he grips its slender thread
Not understanding why.

He has lived three score years and ten
The time allotted us all,
And then he has lived still ten more
He is so very tired now.

The sun sets darkly in the west
But his blind eyes do not see.
There he sits a lonely figure
Waiting out the beat of time!