|
| |
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.
Copyright ©
Enda Collins
|
|