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Poem

If the sky truly felt for us it would grow old too
Such words I read, and thought
It does grow old, each day
The hours tick its youth away
Late autumn fades its light
Dressed drab in old lady greys and browns
Bent low, pressed and tired
Winter-wrinkled, puckered up in old man’s frown
Makes you wonder where he went, the fretful boy with rushing eyes
The summer girl with arms flung wide to hug the world
Look up and see the cocky ones pick fights
The chance crowds cluster around
Like riot police and demonstrators
The kind who mask their faces, hurl stones
We all know youth has its storms
And didn’t the sky have them too?
Whip us with the wind, pelt and lash
Be a hooligan, a punk, a vandal
Spray can of snow or rain, and cheeky grin between the clouds
Dawn’s soft and pinkish kiss
Peach flush on city walls
Young mother’s quiet gaze 
She throws across her child’s sleepy face
And steady night of map lines, moon
To guide, to cast a blanket broad
Silver streams of lighthouse light
Like teachers, fathers, calmer now with duties and years
Sky grown sedate, less flashy in its spread
Just like us it seems
Of the same moods and seasons
And we like its dawns and dusks

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