(Our neighbour)
He once was mayor of our town
But now retired is on his own,
And left alone
To his own vineyards and orchards.
He once gave advice, for a price,
But now keeps his own counsel.
Talking to himself
As he gently wends his way
Between his fields using his stick,
Nothing slick. Now he is old
And can spend precious moments,
Lost to work and politics of the past,
But now with grandchildren
He should have spent with his own.
Making up for lost time he hopes
Trying to find back those
Moments qualified as quality time
He feels he should have owned.
Morning meanders become more measured
Slower with each day that passes,
Passes in a cloud of regret.
Wipes away a tear
Whipped by unforgiving wind.
Alone again he meanders on
To the inevitable,


About David

Devonian writer
This entry was posted in POEMS and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to THE MAYOR.

  1. Thomas Davis says:

    This reminds me of a poem Ethel wrote once. In her poem the old man made an old house he had returned to alive, but both poems are filled with regret for opportunities lost. I enjoyed reading this.


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