still life..

I am older now,
With a creeping step
And faltering word,
As an autumn vine
Hanging, peering,
Upon the sill
Of it's closing days.
Yet, I cling
To the weathered edge,
Of my memory, my hope,
Where I can touch you,
With at least a tender shadow,
If nothing else,
And hope, that you might be warmed,
By an amber afternoon,
Somewhere tracing a fond smile
Of how we were.

Rod Stewart