On A December Morning

I am one who may never run out of rhyme
But eventually i too will run out of time
For eventually all life journeys come to an end
The Reaper of lives does not treat anyone as a friend

Do try to make the most of your every day
For time that rusts iron keeps ticking away
And only the lucky survive to die old
The funeral bell for the young too has tolled

The birds chirp and whistle on the sunlit trees
On a beautiful December morning of close to twenty degrees
And on the park garden beds the beautiful flowers
Looking healthy in full bloom after the recent showers

On this sunlit Land of the far south
Such a beautiful morning for to write rhymes about
With the sun on their dark wings chirping as they fly
Welcome swallows chasing flying insects in the blue and gray sky

Nature always does leave us with great memories
White butterflies dancing in the gentle breeze
Blowing uphill from the ocean in this land of the far south
Where there is never a shortage of rhymes to write about.