The old men are making their way,
Bent over but still proud,
Holding their canes and taking small steps.
They never waver,
Although they pause before proceeding.
In their heavy trousers and pressed shirts
They are presentable,
No matter how frail.
They can be found crossing the great highway
In the bright morning light,
Before the heat of the day.
The old men are bound for the ocean.
They reach deep down inside,
Finding reserves of determination.
The old men will feel the offshore breeze again,
Staring one more time
Out past the line of breakers along the shore,
Out to the distant line of the horizon,
Past the glittering whitecaps
And the echoes of past lives.
They have been here many times before
And yet they still insist
On making the trip once more.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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