The Old Man - Lyrics Critique

by Michael
(England)

The Old Man

On a wishful day under its cream sky,
where the sun hid then peeped awhile,
the old man looked out and away,
from his window decked with peeling paint.
In clothes frayed from sharing an age.

As he listened to the creatures at bay,
from his memories he emptied the days,
when a youthful prodigy would fly,
the raw wisdom that now made him smile.
Let them seep to the front of his mind.

On the hills where the mist caught his eye,
he knew the footpaths he walked as a child,
and the distance to which he safely roamed.
Looked back to the old house through the rain.
Felt the lure of the coal fire and its flame.

Then the old bus-stop like a flag on the lane,
where he met her before his first shave.
In those special shoes he loved to shine,
the rig-out he paid for and set aside.
Cufflinks he thought twinkled in her eyes.

The young man confused when his father died.
The coffin set by the window for a day and night.
How and why the face looked pink and unpained,
when for months it had gradually gone grey.
Through the braveness in illness where he lay.

His own son sat on the bench with lemonade,
outside the pub in the dusk as he supped his ale.
He spoke of things with new wisdom tonight,
to the child in himself and by his side.
Now knew the adult gives birth to the lore of life.

On the pale wall before him sat his wife,
cheeks flushed from their walk at daylight.
The picture he'd taken and looked at each May,
well preserved in a drawer since she went away.
And he mused on why he treasured her this way.

He closed his eyes, felt the breeze on his face.
Heard the buzzing and chirping forever this place.
And he smiled to himself that if lonely at night,
he had this richest tapestry unique to a life.
Whether wishful or grieving, in laughter or strife.

by Michael Naughton