Across memory’s autumn-dug, fragrant soil;
Below wheeling, squealing gulls
A sixty-some summer’s man
Limps up a rising, pot-holed track
With a bent back and a broken barrow,
Rooted to the leaf-fall, sun-bronzed skies
By a skein of light grey bonfire smoke
And the young faerie sparks that dance within it.
Reblogged this on Muck, Line and Thinker.
Great combination of poem and photo! Dwight