Quaint brown eyes
stroke a line
across the long queue of pines;
spotting a man,
with his feet stern on heaps--
and a few tricks up his sleeve.
He held wood to build a shelter
Cold dew was due in such a weather
Trekking could leave any man wildly down to his medieval ways
Wood for shelter, stones for fire
Strolling down the delta
to fetch the clean blue.
The four legged saint walks away,
as his graze of pure eyes followed the light across the sky.
No space for absolution, did not even wonder why.
But I still wonder how he did it,
The man, with his wooden scalpel
But it did leave the stag's meat in the cold dark cave,
For the lion to feast for all week upon it.
Photo credit: https://pin.it/w2WoJiz