Old Man Brent

It's a cold bitter day the wind it bites like needles head held low, wind chimes beckon from the open fields to the shelter of his elders woods, a cabin quaint and humble place enough to potter and mumble where he kneels beneath the smoke stained stone vent Kindle wood in hands to light the fire helped on by his old leather bellows a gust makes good the flame With time on hand and pipe on lip he lays right back and takes a sip old man Brent demure, content he lived a quite descent and lent an ear to the wild, travelled to town on his horse and cart always up with the lark an early start Made his own wine from elderberry fine, where he drank in the evening of his own decline He played his father’s fiddle that high pitched hey diddle diddle, fingertips hardened aged and brittle The years are closing in on the old man from fresh pine hill sitting on the rocks where his fore-bearers sat, ending his days on the shores of his youth, old man Brent his far away stare, smiles.