A Winters Tale

A Winter`s Tale It was clearing up in the afternoon fingers of sunlight lit up the olive grove a slight mist and a bizarre story I saw him the old man dressed in a soil dark suit, with a jute sack over his shoulder picking up lost souls. This time, of the year there is many. The clouds in the sky have many hues some are black others rosy and ephemeral shifting colours with the light, pushed by the wind Church bell tolls before noon. This miasma of ages, stubbing a toe on the exposed root of an olive tree when trying to follow the track of yesterday. It has no future What was it all for? Is there a god? The end is silence