Old as a bottle of vintage wine,

young as the taste on your tongue.

 

Old as the river that swoops to the sea,

young as the brook in the hills.

 

Old as the mountains that touch the sky,

young as their dusting of snow.

 

Old as the gem won from the ground,

young as it’s inner fire.

 

Old as the bark on an ancient tree,

young as the blossom it bears.

 

Old as the rock that sits in the bay,

young as the sounds it reflects.

 

Old as the seas that circle the globe,

young as the rising tide.

 

Old as the years that furrow a brow,

young as a youthful heart.

 

Old as the promise made long ago,

young as the love we still feel.

 

 

David Garlick, Victoria.  July, 1993