The Old One
The Old One stood,
Stock still and staring,
Of life’s deeper mysteries and meanings,
And intense concentration
Upon some feature or creature
Just a few metres or so from his feet.
His robes were as weather-worn,
Grey, faded and blanched
As the years that furrowed his brow
And had bent his upper back
Into a pronounced, round-shouldered stoop.
He was still there, hours later,
Having moved not a muscle
As if in training for eternity:
A shade only slightly more sombre
Than the shadows of evening,
Falling, more curtain than veil,
Upon the bleak winter landscape
And upon the gnarled, lopped tree
I later found my Old One to be.