Now in my grey-haired heart, <br />Flows the blood of seasons past. <br /> <br />Those pastoral beats, that once surged <br />In a sea of windmill leaves. <br /> <br />My haygold, harvest days, warmed <br />My cockles; all splashed in sun. <br /> <br />There was no chill that gripped and snapped, <br />When winter laced my hills in white. <br /> <br />Those new life days that bloomed, <br />Under the trees of springing light. <br /> <br />When I was young...not dying of time.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dying-of-time/
