When he was young <br />and life was poetry <br />and poetry was life <br />and girls made poetry <br />in his heart <br /> <br />he’d showed his poems to <br />an aged poet who <br />was quiet a while then <br />nodded his head and <br />smiled and <br />said ‘keep writing’ <br /> <br />and he swore that day <br />as long as he could hold a pen <br />he’d write some sort of poetry <br /> <br />and so he did and so he did <br /> <br />and when he was <br />too old to hold a pen <br />he spoke his poetry <br />some say in an Irish pub <br /> <br />and people came from miles around <br />and said sure it was a t’ousand times <br />better than to read his poems on the page <br />which was itself worth – <br />and that last phrase was poetry <br />for who is not Irish and a poet <br /> <br />and when he was too old <br />to walk down to the pub <br /> <br />they came and listened <br />at his door and at his window <br /> <br />and when he was too old to speak <br />they came to see his silence <br /> <br />and left as poets <br />for their head <br />had joined their heart<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-aged-poet-for-kealan-if/
