The Young Lad Of The Fifties Poem by Francis Duggan

The moorhen had their young in the pond in the grove by the rill
That babbled to the river from the high field by the hill
And the fields resplendent in their flowers of the May
And the nesting birds whistled and sang all the day
In his flights of fancy he hears the birds sing
In the groves, woods and hedges of his homeland in Spring
He came from a valley from here far away
And the passing of time has left him looking gray
The lad of the fifties nowadays doesn't run fast
One can say his better days are in the past
Eventually we all become victims of time
And so quickly we all seem to fade from our prime
And few things as we know ever does seem to last
We can only live in the now for the past is the past.