When we were young,

the world was new

each day an adventure

to be abandoned for

better, newer, more exciting

days to come.

Later, fat, contented, we settled

consolidating and simplifing

forgetting adventure

each new horizon no

better or more exciting

than those past.

Now we are old

and share sandwiches

by the seaside

wearing heavy woolen coats

and sensible shoes.

The sea is grey, relentless,

crashing on a pebbled coast.

The wind dies, the clouds part

and moonlight lays a path

across the swelling sea.

The tide turns, retreating.

The scoured beach is empty.

You take my hand.

What a good day, you say.

What a very good day.

Yes, I agree, what a very good day

we have had.

You touch my face.

"It's all right," you say.

"Days end, but the moon

will light us home."