The Watcher

 

I am the watcher,

The looker-on at life.

I keep to a corner

And, in my mind’s eye,

Measure the colours in the clouds,

Their rose and pink and silver;

Their rolling folds in shades of grey.

I count waves as they reach the shore,

Time the shadows’ shift from west to east,

Then track each young girl’s path

From hope to grief.

When busy people say I have not lived,

I sigh to think of all that they have missed.

Ann Copeland

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