Old Albert

Not one for idle talk,

Old Albert,

Though silence spoke to him

No doubt.

His wheelbarrow grumbled

With its harvest of apples;

Sparrows heckled

As he passed.

Winds tugged at his cap;

And the sun performed

Cartwheels

Behind his back.

Smoke waivered

In his greenhouse.

His ghost is busy

In the flowerbeds,

Reading weeds their last rites.

It lurks in the orchard

Where we climbed as children;

Waits undiscovered

Like windfalls in grass.

Wrapped in breezes,

He sleeps on,

Ignoring the dark.