Half-written on the sprawling page of Time,
my epitaph’s a process underway.
The pessimist would argue for decline
and say that all is tainted with decay.
Such people see the worst in all mankind;
no chink of light, no joy—indeed, no scope.
They never see the sunshine, they are blind
to anything that might resemble hope.
But I can feel redemption in the breeze
that blows and greets each newly-minted morn;
I take delight in mountains, birds and trees
and thank the Lord each day that I was born.
My epitaph will one day be complete—
until that time, the joys of life are sweet.
Bill Fitzsimons