Reminiscence

Another old poem of mine

I watch the sun set
from atop a lonely hill.
The sky a canvas,
the light the pencil.

The golden rays are
turning fields from green to gold.
Pencil strokes divine
painting new as old.

Days are darker now
the frailty of life made clear.
Where did my sun go
who was once so near?

I should not miss it
the golden days of warm spring.
It's just a memory
and memories sting.