Old Bill Wright

Observes the couple hand in hand
skipping the lake's fire; children summoned
to baths and bed, the park's day setting
to dusk breathless, a simple resting;
two night birds arcing in wild flight–
these are the eyes of Old Bill Wright.

Shipyard dark awaiting a new end
to long voyage, the cargoes they loaded as men–
the same dock his Father brought him to,
years ago now, when liners passed through.
Rough marks, stone and strong and still holding tight–
these are the hands of Old Bill Wright.

Father tall in suit and tie, arms that
could encompass all. Placing his hat
onto a tiny head and pulling down the brim–
darkness forgotten in one hug from him.
A still-drawing map, all features and light–
this is the face of Old Bill Wright.

The electric hum of telegraph poles, storms
and restless dawn the sleepless night becomes.
Newspaper headlines, war and weather, old film reels
flashing years and the young soul he still feels.
Firelit trains racing through the night–
these are the thoughts of Old Bill Wright.