Gone are the days of gazing upon life with adolescent glory and wonder.
I still know all the answers but today my hands are old.
They’ve been old for a while.
Gnarly tree’s with knotted limbs.
Smell like dirt, the earthy kind, click like kindling by the fireside.
Movement’s agile, I still believe I’m fast.
Faith VS fact – how long will that last?
Age has been kind, there’s space in the book for a few more lines.
The spine is weathered but legible.
I’m still fast.
My hands look old.
© G.P Williamson 2017