Old man

I often think of an old man

Left behind in a far hinterland

His wrinkled face

A testimony of time

Resilience in his demeanour

Staunchness in character,

And a gentle smile

As broad as yielding fields

I see him standing in the olive grove

Contemplating

Where to build yet another dry wall ,

While the sun kept burning

Through his old hat ,

With a thousand fingerprints

I think of him on a small oval ground

Tending to horses trotting in a circle ,

Threshing coarse harvested wheat –

Where a myriad specks of dust

In play of light rise

Spreading ripen smell through the air

I think of his dedication to the land

From dawn to dusk

Tough grind is survival, salvation –

He once said

That’s the way you discover peoples souls

In the deeds they do

And every now and then

In night – mantled hours

I still hear him – shuffling

Up a steep ravine

I can hear a small trembling voice

Tired young footsteps following behind

In between moving shadows

Noisy cicadas

Guided by an illuminating moon

I often think about this old man

My grandfather

(C) Copyright Dinka Bednjacic,

3 / 11 / 2017.