The Man Who Lost His Mind

His house was small,

a wooden affair

His front door greeted the nor-west;

the wind at the portal washed his face of care

It was rarely opened

He preferred the small side entrance,

past a little table and dying geraniums

When friends called  (and that was rare)

he would be in the garden,

walking around and up and down;

past the vegetable garden he was going to put in;

the blazes of colour in the little undug beds

Sometimes, it was all too much; the idea

that a retired man should do too much

So he pottered: in the shed and out;

around the back and the front

Sometimes he sat is his car

or watched the wind rattle the poplars at the foot of the hill

Then he was gone

He went to town for a better life

It was on those grey streets, before he noticed,

his mind fled to the hills

 

3 thoughts on “The Man Who Lost His Mind

  1. You conveyed it well & truly for this reader. You seem to have a lens that highlights the essential features in such portraits of yours, John!

  2. Love the loving description, Mr. Keast, I find the ending most heart-breaking:
    It was on those grey streets, before he noticed,
    his mind fled to the hills

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