Sometimes vows
will make themselves,
cement themselves
     inside unsuspecting hearts.

Years come and go,
faces change, and places,
until some twilight when crickets serenade
the coming dark.

In shadow of the swaying boughs
we realize the chance has passed
and still the vows
have lasted.

This poem was written some years ago after reading ‘When You Are Old’
by William Butler Yeats. I had forgotten about the poem until I read the following article a few days ago on a WordPress ‘Irish History’ blog