(Source: BBC News Sussex)

The world wizzes by

At sixty minutes an hour

As the invisible old man

Shuffles by the store window.

Faces, buried in phones,

Are oblivious to his struggles

As early winter snows

And joints no longer fresh

Imperil every footfall;

Each step an exercise

Of will and forethought.

Hands palsy of cold and age,

Eyes rheum of wind and memory,

But the soul burns wildly

Despite bodily afflictions.

Crowds thicken and jostle;

The man holds his place

To catch balance and breathe.

And historied eyes rise

To catch reflections in glass.

The eyes that watch me

Are my own of blue,

But the husk that bears them

Is that of an ancient;

Frail and mortal witness

To a life eternal.

(Source: http://www.paularcher-uk.com)