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
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!
Too kind.
I knew this man and saw his decline.
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