Every old man I see, reminds me of my father. When he had fallen in love with death. one time when sheaves were gathering. That man I saw in the Gardener Street. Stumble on the curb is one. He stared at me half eyed. I might hae been his son. And I remember the musician. Faltering over his fiddle in Baywater, London. He too set me the riddle. Every old man I see. In October-coloured weather. Seems to say to me; I once was your father. Written By: Patrick Kavanugh