The old man lies where midnight lamps keep watch along the quiet ward,
And pale machines keep patient count of breaths that ebb and flow;
His bones are worn like weathered spars long labouring against the gale,
Yet memory walks bright meadows where the evening breezes blow.
He sees again the pasture path beyond the gate and orchard fall,
And there beside him panting glad they rest against the old stone wall.
At home the faithful dog lies curled beside the chair his master knew,
His muzzle grey as winter frost that whitens field and lane;
The daughter tends him gently there with kindly hand and patient word,
And warms the hearth against the dusk and keeps away the rain.
Yet oft he lifts his weary head when drifting winds across the hall
Seem faintly bring the step of him who sat beside the old stone wall.
So two old bodies bear their years where time has drawn them far apart,
One watched by lamps of healing halls, one by a homestead fire;
But young the hearts that once together wandered field and dusty road,
Through seasons bright with simple trust and uncomplaining tire.
And somewhere in the quiet mind beyond the ward’s white lighted pall
They walk again at sunset’s hour and rest beside the old stone wall.
(By John Shenton)