Saturday Sonnet: To the Nephew

I seldom write of death. I’m still too young;
My pen has yet to spell of lives dispelled,
And when I walked my way, the hand I held
Was not the shadow I’ll hold down the long
And final path. But death paid me a visit
In a dream, it stood by me before
The sea to take a picture, and it bore
A shape as my grandfather’s once. Is it
Coincidence death came as an old man,
The same old man in every picture past
Which hold my fathers in a folder’s span?
Death spoke to me, and now I know I’m cast
As an old man on seas your eyes will scan.
Then I’ll be death. Your dream will be my mast.