boyhood friend

Boyhood Friend

He used to be my friend, fifty years lapsed;
when seeing him again I saw the boy in
an aged face. Back then he was awkward child
now he was snug in his elderliness, race over,
he had made it no more silly dreams, mild eyes,
quiet smile, fond of giving advice to the young,
and… me. He spoke of years I had forgotten,
of a silvery childhood, removed from mundane
reality or perhaps it was me who remembered
wrongly, or maybe I hadn’t yet picked out my
nuggets of gold illusions from the cold soil of
fear that was the infancy we had in common.
As the world despairs over these endless wars,
my friend is happily cocooned in holy senility.