Old Man Poem by Stug Jordan

Old man, shrunk like a nut
Sits by a blackened fire
In his empty stone hut:
Scratches at his brown beard.

Birds visit, as loud as hawks,
He chews on his pipe,
The small radio talks:
Reaches for his warm whiskey.

Icy windows, holes in his socks,
Leans back in his chair,
It silently rocks
To the boiling of his sweet potatoes.

Oak table, butter slowly melts,
Dusty framed photos
On dusty oak shelves:
Horses’ hooves trot down the lane.

Cracked mirror, a curtain shivers,
A smoke plume rises
And slowly withers:
Hornets gather by the gate.

Damp walls, paper is old,
Age-stitched sheets
Glazed dark in mould:
The fireside clock strikes three.

Golden thorns, swaying thistles,
Smoky logs creak,
The kettle whistles;
And the day’s clouds turn grey.

Brisk evening, by the doors,
The small fire fades
The dog slowly snores;
And stars spread over the fields.

Shrunken old man, bolts up his shed,
The coal lightly glows,
He climbs up to bed:
The wind howls until dawn.