The Walking Stick

A sunny sky to mark my day,
I strolled along, alone, and bored,
The park was lively, with birds chirping,
Dogs barking, and fish swimming.

A tree swayed, and a sparrow flew away,
Up soared the eagle, to catch its prey,
So on such a sunny day, I strolled,
Alone and bored, nothing to do.

At a distance I saw a boy, a kid of my age,
Play with his dog, as his grand old man,
Aged with wisdom, wrinkled with love,
Sat by the tree, and watched him play.

Next to him lay, his walking stick,
Wood of the same tree, or so I presumed,
To support him, till he made peace,
Till he lays down his worries and leaves.

The kid played along, urging his old man,
To play with him, to throw a ball or two,
The old man did budge, stood up to play,
But his weak legs wouldn't let him stay.

So he picked up his walking stick,
To play with his little kid,
Something struck me at this point,
And for long did I lose myself to thoughts.

The walking stick had become a part of him,
A part he cherished and lived.
A part which would never leave his side,
I wish I had a walking stick too like him.