Golden Days

 Golden Years

johnclarestokes 

The father recalls the golden years

Of a son that once lingered near

Of a father matching his gait

Pausing often to wait

Keeping the son in sight

And they would stop and listen

Poised in aim at any rustling 

Hid in the tree boughs watching

And the crows would alarm at the sound

On the father and son looking down

The father would whisper now son

And the son would squeeze the trigger on the gun

And the father would say well done

Beaming with the bagging of the bushy tail

Of golden years the story we often would tell.