Its time I bought my thoughts
to book,
Racing torrent, like babbling brook.
They plunge over precipice and craggy rill,
Through pastures of mind and questioning hill.
Let them meander, a river of dreams,
Reflection of the sun on my youthful stream.
The depth of memories in darkened lake,
With ripples full of remorse, the surface in gentle quake.
With bend and curl my thoughts just mud and silt,
Deposits of knowledge what my life had built.
At last I can find the real purity of age in me,
As my flowing mind reaches the terminal sea.
Phil Hall November 2013
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