Old Eyes

He's in frames big enough for a child to climb

and being long-sighted his eyes loom large

lids like giant moths fan lenses,

cooling perhaps the thoughts

which overheat his mottled corneas,

constricting the pupil who’s learned too much.

What longed for return to easy times,

before lines linked nose and chin?
what devastating dreams of days when skin

less grey stretched taught across that

sacrificial skull?

It’s no secret; time makes an enemy of our cells

and when the dance of summer days is done

we’re left to search the dimming light

for children climbing, 


their sharp eyes not sharp enough see

the place they’re climbing to;

the wise and wizened eyrie of the old.