Friendship of old men is a quiet thing,
Textured of memory and faith unspoken,
Winter and summer mornings dawn and wing
Into the past without a sign or token.
When two old men sit on the porch together,
Watching the shadows of the evening thicken,
Exchanging scattered words about the weather,
They feel a silence as the night winds quicken.
One of them left alone will show no trace
Of grief nor walk across the bridge that lies
Between the small town and the burying place,
Yet sometimes an old man will feel his eyes
Fill with quick tears if he should chance to meet
An old friend's son along the village street.
~ Grace V. Watkins
Winter and summer mornings dawn and wing
Into the past without a sign or token.
When two old men sit on the porch together,
Watching the shadows of the evening thicken,
Exchanging scattered words about the weather,
They feel a silence as the night winds quicken.
One of them left alone will show no trace
Of grief nor walk across the bridge that lies
Between the small town and the burying place,
Yet sometimes an old man will feel his eyes
Fill with quick tears if he should chance to meet
An old friend's son along the village street.
~ Grace V. Watkins
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