Keep folks in their earth-tones, the browns and grays, A world apart from the chill, embraced by indoor warmth's embrace. An elderly gent, in his seasoned old car, Pulls up to a cemetery, perhaps a widower, perhaps a scar.
Across from the grave, as if rising from the earth's cold core, A hundred black birds burst into the gaps of the sky they explore. The village sighs in melancholy, a shared, heavy heart, Another elder, like me, strolls in, grinning, playing his part.
He smiles and smiles until I can't help but grin, Simple, shared joys amid life's constant spin. Local meat deals at the butcher's shop, a friendly face, Ambition humbly takes its place, without haste.
Sheep graze along roads, beneath the spinning wind farms, Twirling aimlessly, against the frigid south easterly charms.
