The Golden Hours of a pink-hued sky,
Riddled with clouds of all sorts and shapes
Funnelled into the horizon. The Old Man
Chuckled and sang a sigh of relief;
As the wind’s gentle breeze wavers the grass,
The Dawn of the seas can be heard ever so softly,
Slashing at the surface of the ported bounds,
The Old Man folded away his glasses neatly,
Pocketing them with gentle care while the
Rosy overcast lights pastel lining of the clouds.
The Stars, as floodlights, curiously whispering
From Afar looms lengths above the bench.
Sitting down, the wrinkles of the Old Man’s
Eyes sparkle as droplets of water, Splitting,
and Illuminating the dew-kissed air. As if the Heavens themselves sat and watched, Frozen within the halves of a second, The cascades folding and writing onto another, Sound itself, stopped, as the Old Man drew his breath. Glaring upon the distance as if to mention something, The Old Man paused. His voice soft-spoken As the shores of beyond, he muttered: “Will you Remember me?”