I wrote this poem following the death in December last year in Moscow of a young British/French man, which shocked me to the core. A reminder of the vulnerability of life, and that all of us have lived on the edge at time.

Colin Ward

Time

They carry the future in their hands

These young gods who have it all

They own something more than simply gold,

That precious gift called time

 

They strut the stage of life

An easy care, the freshness of youth

And they’re the kings, only they have got,

That precious gift called time

 

Those of us of older years

Who traded out for wise old days

We all just crave what youth retains

That precious gift called time

 

So when it’s wasted, left too soon

Oh that youth would share our wisdom

But it’s all so different, when you still retain

That precious gift called time
Oh sad are we, but we understand

Life is lived and has to be

Always refreshing, always renewing

That precious gift called time

 

Goodbye young man you went too soon

You lived your life as best you knew

Denied forever to understand

That precious gift called time

December 2016