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(A poem I wrote a long time ago…)

The old man sits at his window,

It is slightly ajar, and

A gentle breeze creeps in, sweeping over his face and hair.

He shivers…and

For a brief moment feels at peace.

He holds his hands together tightly,

Fingers interlock,

As if in prayer…

Slowly he stands up, and

Makes his way towards the door,

Opens it, and

Steps outside.

A tree has claimed it’s ground in one corner…

Although it is not very big, it’s presence is impressive.

It’s branches are laden with fruit,

They hang low, almost touching the ground…

Standing by the tree, he places a hand to rest on its trunk.

A smile breaks out on his face, and

As the wind rustles the leaves, they seem

To answer in recognition.

Wise and wise alike.

He gathers up the fruit, and

Carries it into the kitchen.

Washing each one carefully, he places them into a basket.

“For Molly, when she returns…”




As the clocks tick, the seasons pass…

The tree now stands forlorn,

Cruelly stripped bare of cover and colour.

Black, against a crimson sky.

And still the ticking of clocks,

Remind us of the death to come, as

Wise and wise alike.