For Cyril Pine
He asks, ."Where do the years go?."I wonder does he mean to be answered.Tears gather like an avalancheIn old eyes, along the high slopesOf innocence and regret,And he turns his head away,Gazes through a window toward the pastureWhere the last of his cowsAre grazing at dusk.."Where do the years go?."Some perhaps are in his hands,In the knuckles and the broad thumbs,And some perhaps are in his children,And in the silent house they have left.As for the rest,There is only the night that comes on,And the forgetting of love.He falls into the privacy of his own deathWatching light vanish from the meadow,Is silent, and turns again to the boyWho fears such grief.."Where do the years go?."."Somewhere good I hope.."The old man had not expected an answer,Nods again toward the darkness,Whispers slowly,."Somewhere good I hope.."
