The Old Rover Poem by Mosi Mustapha Gomina

He came with the mild-murmuring breeze in play.
Ambling down the sordid silence of May,
His hand swaddled a scarlet-speckled flute
That stemmed mid-day's searing gay attitude.
When his lips parted to caress the wind
That cuddled aloft his grey-bearded chin,
It quivered the flowers; calm and mellow
And echoed the whistlings of the meadow.
Our souls succumbed to the gale of his whirr.
Faint-footed and wonder-wreathed we were.
He ploughed thoughts upon which words cannot ride
And sailed atop our sore-soothed bleak tides.
Ample flock-tending shepherds rambled by;
As did brazen nightingales in the sky.
Maulding-maiming melodies that chimed forth
Remained captive to stones of frugal worth.
In symphonic notes, he told sombre tales
Of lethal despair and surreal bewails;
Of sullen kingdoms and placid-plagued kings;
And of Summer, Winter, Autumn and Spring.
E'en the wild-wandering clouds shed tender tears
When he left in benign but senile fears.
Forever and more shall we await him
To musically bring to life, our swoon dreams.