When I am old, old, old as old as
an oak glowing enormous and gold
at a dappling day's end; when
my face is as wrinkled as
the face of a pond in the wind; when
remembering is my work and
a nap is my recreation, then
I will be still enough to pray, to
hold sunlight in my hand and
wait for love
the way love has of old
waited for me.
© Copyright Tom Baker 2019- 2008