A STEP TOWARDS WINTER.

I look into the mirror’s depthless space

and note the wrinkles that, somehow have grown

into something I wish I didn’t own.

The knife of age has cut into my face.

The greys within my hair have moved apace

from where the bird of youth had lightly flown

to make a nest of life that it could own.

I wish it hadn’t sprinted in that race.

Yet – later, standing on a wind scarred rock

that jutted from the fields of pristine snow.

Where rivers etched like lines upon a page.

I came to see the beauty, not the shock,

of time’s tattoo upon a constant flow

of seasons, that lack colour in their age.

Photo (c) Ian Whiteley (Bannf National Park 2009)