weathered and canted.
A thousand winds could not topple this old man.
The keeper of Hay, and apples, vineyard Concorde,
Sweet days of buzzing things,
The pungent aroma of grain freshly threshed.
The scythe is rusted and tired now.
buried and memorialized just behind him.
Leather tack, hung for the last time,
no one remembers when,
Like a bald man searching,
This building, bent and gazing,
at slate tiles slipped from head.
Pale shadows of red make up peeking,
Just as the old Mail Pouch add.
This old man has seen his day,
Has contributed countless harvest to market.
He is tired now, and justly so…
Leave him to rest in peace,
with the empty lofts,
The dead horses,
and Rusted plow.
Old man calling,
A simple request,
to just remember and revere.