David William Paley
Those who work with field and plough
Will know the tolling bell
That rings the changes on the bough,
To sound the autumn knell.
The trees stand bare within the bower
Revealing vistas widely spread
As Time imposes winter power
To prompt reflection on the lives we led.
As we make our way in life's long days,
Aware that fate takes centre stage,
We thread along the winding maze
Where all our thoughts will drop with age.
Our present becomes the past
Replaced by futures yet unknown
But the store we have will not outlast
The fleeting scenes when they have flown.
Like falling leaves, we close our eyes
Until the last remaining glow
Succumbs to sleep with lasting sighs
To rest alone in shade below.
In years we cannot number,
Dreams will waft through our demise
Borne in visions beyond our slumber
To boundless space where freedom lies.
We all shall dwell in hidden graves
Sadly mourned by those bereaved
Who pause to contemplate our lives
And all the works that we achieved.
Our deeds survive, however sparse,
But, whilst I muse upon the past,
The clock shall not tick nor the seasons pass:
I stop the time and make this moment last.