A wanderer
There he sat
The old man with a hat;
Under the tree,
Looking so free..
His ashen face, with lines of tire,
Making it known he worked with fire.
His eyes didn't shine
But he did not whine,
For he seemed to know
There is sun, rain and snow,
And that, life has many more seasons
Existing in for great grand reasons.
His clothes were tattered,
His belongings battered;
He appeared to have travelled
With him being gravelled,
Throughout the world, far and wide
In dust and roads, seas and tide..
His calloused hands
May have worked in sands
For they bore the mark
Of toil and labour; scarry and dark.
He might have seen joy and pain,
Youth and senility, beauty and vain.
But now he simply sat, looking so free
Hat on his head, under the tree..
YOU ARE READING
Cornucopia
PoetryWelcome to the Poets Pub!! This collection is for poems our members have written and would like to share with everyone. For all the details read on...
