There is a man on a hill
far away
by the sea.
With no boats on the waves or birds in the trees.
He sits on a bench that is close to the edge,
he can see up above and below from his ledge.
He can see to the left
to the right
and beyond;
and of sitting alone on his ledge he is fond.
He sits through the wind and the rain and the snow,
for this is a man with nowhere to go.

He covets the birds as he watches them fly;
and looks to the sky as to ponder the why.
The beard that he wears is tangled and long
much in need of a wash let alone of a comb.
His clothes lay as tattered as the dreams in his mind,
four species of moss on his coat you could find.
He doesn't have family,
he doesn't have friends
when the need for companionship grows he pretends.
He once had a dog, but that died with his pride.
He may look half as old but he's withered inside.
Aged by the seemingly endless charade
of living his life in the world that he made,
and the seemingly infinite plans that he drew,
they died with his faith in his friends that he knew.

He no longer exists in his own shattered world,
he is merely a leaf in the wind as it swirled.
Lifeless and useless,
devoid of it's source
resigned to a path to let fate take it's course.
A course which he fears
but for all his heart years;
as much as the pull of the earth as it turns.
He could pass for a rock for his movement is none,
he thinks of his life and the things that he's done.
For now they seem futile,
unthought in their cause
riddled with hurmourless laughable flaws.

He covets the birds as he watches them fly;
and looks to the sky as to ponder the why.
The wind calls his name as it calls to a leaf,
to contemplate falling to join those beneath.
There's a bench on a hill
far away by the sea;
with no boats on the waves or birds in the trees
The clouds shed their tears and it falls to the ground,
it rains on the bench and the world all around;
it rains on the dead in their graves as they lay,
but not on the man on a hill
far away.


1995