Whistling
Whistling high and low, The old man walks. His path down-trodden by aged boots Of days and years gone by. The coat grips the mantle well, hangs firm and Waxy, set around his shoulders. Striding on, he nears his land His compact kingdom. A hint of grassy path welcomes, and Leads by fallen canes and planks, ignored, Crops emerge shortly, uniformly; Rows of shoots in bowed, young green. Little lives all loyal to his song, Growing, breathing invisibly slow, Creeping over weathered, stumpy walls, Fondling crack and corner. The man steps in, stops and looks, Sees what morning brings. Some subtle growth, some gradual change, And idle waters rest, stale. And he whistles, His contentment delicately speaks With humble melodies, invigorating, And distant birds complement his song.