Times Of Change
He had turned his back on the watering hole
For the last time there with his work mates;
They had gathered each Friday for so many years
After closing the factory gates.
They sat in the warmth 'round the old oaken bar,
Each sipped from his cold amber glass,
And reminisced there of the week just gone by,
And quickly an hour would pass.
A lifetime was spent in perfecting his skills
Which, time and again, were admired.
But now he had reached a critical age:
His presence no longer required.
For old Father Time had caught up with him there,
And the pace on the factory floor
Demanded output to make quotas, but his
Had now dropped past the minimum score.
He had not held his own with the new younger breed;
He could see he was losing the fight.
Though old bones and muscles had served him quite well,
He had known that the end was in sight.
The double door closed as he then walked away
From the pub and its warmth and its light,
And he turned weary steps to the path towards home,
And it seemed like a sadness that night.
His legs felt more tired than in earlier days,
As he scuffed his way up the steep rise;
For both time and occasion had sapped him of strength;
With such, the fire of youth dies.
Then down in the valley he saw his warm cottage,
As he shouldered the evening chill.
The road that's ahead should be easier now,
Now that he's over the hill.