Wild White Hair - Poem by Sean Godley
The odd time, when I trawl these country roads,
I see the same two women walk along.
Time, like a chip of wind, lives and erodes,
And here has sung his springtime-autumn song:
The road is full of potholes worn with mud,
The farmer’s sheds and tractors brown with rust,
Hedges grow too wild; the sometime ditches flood,
And even trees are flecked with misty dust.
Through this, and in their Sunday best, they walk,
The two old ladies, looking neat and trim,
But for their wild white hair, slow solemn talk,
And weathered gait - like trees; they are too slim.
Like time we pass each other, returning waves,
As time takes all, and with his hands, he paves.
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