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
