The Sky Grows Old

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