Who's writing my history

I wonder how many men grow old
with crows feet wondering
wondering where the sunlight
last time left them
at the side of a tired and dirty road
or a lonely windswept beach
I wonder about those men
wondering about where their sons went
Wondering about weather  and storms
Some of these men often
find a way to think less often
I often catch myself thinking
Wondering like a child-heart late in a summer`s dusk,
Somewhere after the son went
If he could only
see me now
How wonderful that'd be