Wind’s Call

Now it has come to this:

an old man bent and thin,

shaking finger on a stick,

and the eyes stare, lost in the

hills of his youth.

He does not hear the chatter,

the witless commentary,

only the stir of the wind

through bracken.

For him it is the collie’s crouch,

hot tea and a bun on high.

Not now. Not in this place,

with its rictus mouths

and podgy cats.

Now the hills are closing in,

and he hears his name

on a rising cold wind

 

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