Revisited

The stuttering breeze,
though barely discernable,
cools my furrowed brow.

I stand on the bank,
watching as the autumn leaves
drift by on the flow.

The river, smaller,
mocking the picture postcards
of my memory.

The old Oak still looms,
overhanging the water;
that at least, still awes.

I seek the armchair –
at least, it was so christened –
among the branches.

Beyond my reach now
but once, in another lifetime,
a throne, fit for a king.

Oh and how I ruled -
Nature, I thought, my subject;
now, I kneel at her feet.

They say, it is not wise,
to go back and foolishly
try to recapture.

They are indeed wise!
For youth visits only once
and then is surely gone.