As those bold men of old left home
To search the earth, its reaches roam,
As they set sail and they looked back,
Did doubt like death, while dressed in black,
Cloud minds with darkness for a span,
“Will we e’er see these shores again?”
Our ship is frail; the sea is deep;
The storms may wail, and we may weep.
The sea is wide; our journey long,
Perhaps we’ve cried our final song.
As this mere man left that old house,
A thought ran ‘cross me like a mouse.
The fear I felt while looking back
And saw a figure dressed in black,
As I set sail, “What of that man?
Would I e’er see that shore again?”
His frame is frail; his cheeks are thin.
He wobbles like the tops that spin.
And now a stroke slurs words he speaks;
No longer oak, he is so weak.
There is no certainty to life,
Except that change is rule, is rife.
The sailor may remain at sea,
Beneath it rest eternally.
The figure waving at the gate
Will wave no more, if soon or late.
Each parting day may bring return,
Or lead away and bridges burn.
Thus we must on our parting days
Weigh carefully our parting ways.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.