Eighty Poem by Patrick Ladbrooke
Eighty
These useless hands
That once could sharply fret
And stretch and bend and hammer on
And play all round the note,
Now barely hold a pencil
Yet the heart,
Which true, can’t run a mile
Will flutter at a woman’s smile
And feel a rhyme
And dance in time
To music.
But no one sees.
They only see these useless hands
That struggle with a pencil.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: growing old
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12/4/2024 10:58:24 PM # 1.0.0
Great poem Patrick. Your hands and heart still intact.