Baton Poem by Paul Reed

Clammy slates lying lifeless
Under the dread-black skies,
Shielding the night from the fire
Of all those youthful eyes;

A wall, a gate, a bastion set against,
A ring-fence to keep out the cold,
As if any such timid defences
Could stop us growing old;

A kind of marking-place, a signal, a point,
The end of the race reached at last,
Knowing as you look on under heavy lids
That the baton has been passed;

For all of the things that are in you
And have seen the winter erode and chill,
Have been launched anew into spring
With all the years to follow still.