WINTER MIST

The woods are half-hidden
By the winter mist—dense and grey-
Renoir would have loved this sight, or Monet-
Sluggish is the sun—even at mid-day.

No bird-song, the flowers look pale
Cold winds drift towards the dim distant hill
I am sitting on the rickety old wooden bench
But my thoughts would not stay still.

Is it the winter or my heart
That is stirring something within me?
What it is, I try as I may but cannot say--
Only some vague feelings ---not akin to melancholy.

Is old age but contemplation and resignation
An old song, once so lustrous, now dull and pale?  
Have I lost the dreams of my youth?
Is this a chapter of life that is dull and stale?

Then suddenly a voice seems to whisper to me-
‘  Glorious and mellow is old age---contentment
Rewards in every turn and its paths are well-trodden
Like the finale of a symphony---magnificent!’

And then,  the woods are lit with the sun’s first strong rays
The mist disperses, dissolves and soon disappears
  I hear the twitter of birds flying past me and this I think--
  ‘Old age should still be champagne ----not love’s regrets or tears’.