A teapot, a ciggy, an occasional stout.
Memories of a tall, kind man.
His walking sticks are abandoned now
         beside the empty dog lead;
Both beloved pet and master have gone on
         to better fields.

Fields where estate copses are still riddled with pheasants;
Where a small girl in wellingtons smiles with huge blue eyes
Waiting for those large protective hands so whisk her up into the air.
Walks in sun shafted forest glades last for eternity
Different leaves, trees, barks and minute creatures’ footprints are play things here.

Here too quiet pastoral moments provide relief
Gentle Autumn dawns sliding through mists
Dewy silver spun spiderwebs
String themselves across the garden’s footpath.
Paced journeys to the oak tree yield a million pleasures.
They sit, the dog and master, under that tree.
A slight mist settling around them
As they survey their garden.
Remembering busier years of digging, planting, and harvesting
Following Nature’s direction.

Suddenly up she bounces,
All eyes and clumsiness.
His tomboy proudly presents a cup of tea.
Jovially he smiles his thanks,
As he pours the warm liquid from
         the saucer back into the cup
And drinking wholeheartedly he tells her of the trees.

The flat cap may be empty now
         and the walking sticks untouched,
But his presence remains,
Ever faithfully welcoming the new day’s sunrise.
Listen for his gentle voice in soft stirrings of Spring awakened animals.
The shafts of Summer sunlight dappling through his oak tree,
         hold the twinkling of blue eyes
All-enveloping autumnal mists surround
         the quietened tomboy in comfort
As she sees his fine white hair in Jack Frosts’s
         silver strands of icy mornings’ magic.

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