An old man sat upon a chair,
Fingers twisting his pure white hair,
Suddenly he gets up, throwing down his coffee cup.
Age he thinks is so unjust.
With youth and vigour all gone bust.
But carry on he knows he must.
Forget his pain and not be fussed.
Then turning up the fire high.
A chill it fills his being.
Drifting into dreaminess
Is this a vision he is seeing
Then lying down upon his bed
With thoughts of childhood in his head
He calmly, gently, all serene.
Passed away, His slate wiped clean.

by Margaret Baker

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