The apple tree had served him well.

With many springs of sweet scented blossom.

And autumn harvests of tender fruit,

Now victim of a winter’s storm,

Stacked in logs to keep him warm.

Yet once piece of that old tree.

Would serve him many years more,

Carefully selected, scraped and varnished,

Cut to length, now his staff,

Constant companion, never apart.

With Grenadier stride, and flowing beard,

The staff now on his shoulder rifle fashion,

Carries his bag of everyday shopping,

Like a travelling journeyman of long ago.

Children look up, some smile in recognition.

Often sitting on a bench seat,

Feeding the pigeons at his feet,

His staff dissected by his beard, held between his knees,

While the pigeons strut bob and bow,

Like Courtiers of some ancient court,

Paying homage to their king.

Sometimes wandering down country lanes,

Crossing moors, hills and fields,

Unaware of anyone, supported by his staff,

At one with nature, and it’s wild creatures.

His mind absorbing creating yet another poem.

Feral cats wild, and cautious,

Come to feed at his garden table,

He demands nothing from them. Offers friendship,

They in turn accept as equals,

Living in the same independent state,

Each rewarded by mutual respect.

The faithful staff now in a corner stands,

Waiting for call to duty, once again.

The Poet on a zimmer frame stride,

Crosses to the window, looks out,

Sees spring blossom, so back to his typewriter,

And another poem flows from his mind.

His latest book now completed, edited, published,

Soon to join the others on his shelf,

All have passed through his fertile mind,

And that old typewriter on his desk.

He says it will be his last, but we

Who know him, smile, knowing that this

Eccentric, Soldier Poet, will continue,

Until he too answers to that final bugle call.