Somewhere, back in yesterdays,
A grandfather robed in wool
Waits alone in his handmade Morris chair.

His knotted hands move in restless raps
along the leathered arms.

Blue mist of morning
shelters his land against the clouds.
Ancient trees, barren in the call
of wind, caress sky.

His little house
sheltered by a hedge of white
lies back beyond aging apple trees.
Hills are oaked
against the wake of winter
as noiseless as the fingers
on the chair.
He watches wind pluck dry leaves
from willow trees.

Somewhere, beyond sounds
of wind and storm,
Higher than an eagle soars,
she waits, his Love.

Withered in age,
he looks out on a crystal world
and longs for release
from the prison of his room