Old Friends Poem by Robert Melliard

Most emigrants can rarely see old friends.
Ten or twenty years just ripple by,
then we're suddenly together once again,
playing tennis on a beach
the way we used to,
but with one eye on the children,
who weren't around before,
and the other on the ball.

And when we stop, puffed out, to have a break,
conversation turns to illnesses and health:
how best to stave off age.

We're plumper now, but calmer too.
Experience has taught us, with harsh rule,
that little else should matter much
if those you love are well.