Eighty-two is in the golden years,
In tolerable good heath and well secured.
Granted luck, advantages well used,
Having saved, temptation oft refused,
The pensioner is comfortably insured.
Yet past the bright blue sky lie certain fears.
There is in each a child bereft, in tears,
Whose pure, untutored terror has endured,
Out of darkness come, alone, confused.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon