Older

Older

In the quiet hush of twilight,
Grey threads weave through the loom of years,
Each line a story, soft‑spoken,
Etched like moss on ancient stone.

Hands that once gripped cricket bats
Now rest upon warm teacups,
Steam curling like memories
Of laughter echoing down cobblestone lanes.

The world feels slower, yet richer,
A garden where time blossoms slow—
Roses of wisdom unfurl,
Their scent lingering on the breeze.

We listen to the rain’s soft patter,
To the distant hum of a lorry,
To the whisper of grandchildren’s feet
Padding across the kitchen floor.

Age is not a fading candle,
But a lantern steadied by wind,
Glowing brighter with each passing dusk,
Guiding the steps of those who follow.