The hair
Landing on the barber’s shawl
Is white

Sandy and white
Like speckles
Of salt and pepper

How did it get to be
That colour?

How did I get to be…
Old?

I remember Sundays
Sitting in the barber’s chair
Watching blond strands drop
Whilst my father read the paper
Sipping a coffee
Waiting to take me home

And now my hair
Is white

Where does the time go?

I think I have lived well
And I hope I have lived true
So, I don’t mind my age
But sometimes
I am surprised
By the signs of change