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 sung a sigh of relief;

As the winds gentle breeze waver the grass,

The Dawn of the seas can be heard ever so soft, 

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,

As if all time begins to slow and sputter,

Frozen within the halves of a second, 

The cascades folding and writhing 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?”