I knew the Braithwaite boy at school;

I knew him when he started work.

He bagged fruit at the market stall:

Quite slow, but never one to shirk.

His parents lived beside the park;

They were the type to put on airs.

They saw him as an office clerk

Or in the city selling shares.

But he was quiet, often teased,

And ready to accept his place;

The customers seemed...

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When you are young,

You wonder what life is about;

When you are old,

You still do not know.

It’s only when you’re middle-aged

That you think you understand,

Because of tears you shed at funerals

And the trail of your footprints in the snow.

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