He walks toward me whistling merrily,
old, shabby, and crooked,
yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him,
he almost skips.
A peppery hound follows;
it slows and flops,
its muddy eyes meekly stoical.
He calls to it -
the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness,
a skewbald tail wags.
The Man breezes past me smiling.
I think of a jaunty scarecrow-Fred Astaire;
his dog struggling to keep up
but huffing happily.
I walk on pondering:
that If time journeys like that
for all the young at heart,
should I skip more often?
He walks toward me, old, shabby and crooked,
yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him.
A peppery hound follows.
Now and again the dog slows and flops,
its muddy eyes question marks.
He calls to it -
the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness,
a skewbald tail wags.
I capture them both in an intake of breath.
We have all been traipsing,
but these two are at ease with their path,
while I have yet to find one.
She was
all compassion,
her softness his delight-
as pliancy in power,did
alight
See more on this topic at
Gen 2:20 2 Cor 12:8 & Ep 5:21/22
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