Saturday, 12 May 2012


He sits in the park, old & grey,
Creased & tired, for him just another day,
The crumbs fall from crepe fingertips,
Words tumble from his mind´s confused lips,
The woman he loved, long dead & gone,
The son he sired, war´s metal gong,
Old man, old man, once young, now grey,
For you the end, for us, the future to play,
Silly grin upon cracked lined face,
The birds understand, they know this place,
Where you toss the crumbs of life upon the ground,
Where they daily search, their feet continually pound,
Crumbs for them, end their hunger, soften their strife,
For you old man, they´re the gritty dry fragments of an ended life.

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