An Old Age Sonnet

An attempt at a sonnet aimed at grumpy old people

Why when decreed at last we come of age
when there is less in front than there is passed,
do grasping hands pause to turn a sullen page
afraid the rising dawn will be the last?
Confounded eyes reflect hues of colour lost
bent ever downward to ponder weary feet,
shuffling a path through a reproachful mist; 
a raging storm to sink a youthful fleet.
Think not of age as a cruel brigands curse
raise your eyes, look upon horizons sky
and recall your life’s poem verse by verse;
colours beyond the mist of a fading eye.
Precious life not made bitter by damaged pride,
but sweeter lived through the child inside.