The Passing Hands Poem by Matthew Holloway

Time passes
With little thought
Bodies grow old
And hair turns grey
This is the inevitable
The days spent drinking
In fields and gardens
Dancing to live music
Become so very different
The jobs that need doing
Start to outweigh those things
Mowing the lawn, hanging the washing
Painting the fence or shed
Some like myself have fought
To delay or defy age
But alas in the end it wins
You become too tired
To drink all day
And find a necessity
In getting things done
So we move our targets
To something more refined
Something less energetic
A few glasses in good company
And an early evening
Bodies still growing older
Hair a bit more grey
And tired eyes remembering
All those stories
From yesterdays