Every morning an old man, with
A sack slung over his bent back,
Leaves his cottage.

His mother’s ancient shadow sits by
The fire keeps ember alive. She is older
Than the eldest olive tree in the groove.

Came here when the earth was new,
Stars not yet born and the moon was
A pale outline on black canvas.

Her son is gathering roses’ dream and
Bird songs in the outer field, to sustain
Her in a life of perpetuity.