Taste the Haste

Fionn’s Sunflower working

A thing of beauty
passed me by,
a thought,
a sound, a glance,
a light brush, a touch
an indelible sign

That beauty,
like the ripest fruit
hanging high
on the farthest bough,
alone, remote
and out of reach,
I hate it now,
its colour, its shine,
its promise
and its bitter after taste.

Careless people
with no regard,
who block the street,
once angered me,
no more,
while walking slow,
infirm, restrained by age,
ashamed, beguiled
to stand in old man’s shoes
and taste the haste,
the bile of youth.