As I get older I see his big jawed face
stare back through all these years.
His roughened hands, large, and worn
where my young hands were once
As I speak, I detect his raspy voice,
his cough, as sharp as gravel stone.
The cycle of life plays its games
on every father and his aging sons,
As time moves on, year by year
until one grows into the other
The cycles of all lives are such,
the treadmills of natures touch.
- John Saunders