Cobh In Many Forms

Time, the clock upon the wall,
late evening light upon her face,
bright eyes of blue, a faded hue,
once raven hair now white as frost.

A voice that sang is now a whisper,
precious memories fading slow,
cherished youth it drifts away,
Like grains of sand upon a breeze.

Beneath the lights of home,
a feeling gone but never forgotten,
but time it is a silent thief
and old age has laid its hand upon her.