At first he takes your hand
Leads you gently across the sand
Takes his time in his long stride
As you consider him a friend

In thoughts of younger days
He seems to stand in place
With knowing smile he crimps your style
As you have no need to wait

Then in the blinking of an eye
Time quickly slides you by
Now holding hands in the swirl of quicksand
Too many questions as to why

Coming to the age old turn
Finding you're too far immersed
And the crooked line with father time
Has finally run its course