Softly they walk on a day in October, the old man
and sunlight amongst ageless olive trees planted
when his great grandfather was young.
On the track there is mark of hooves from flocks
of sheep that walk here daily on their way home
after grazing on the upland.
Bits of fleece on thorny bushes, black pellets
and the pungent aroma of the wooly backed
He sees the old cottage, the roof has fallen
in and bushes grow through its floor, but
he doesn´t stop, it was all so long ago.
Light is fading, wants to turn in, time to go
home for him too, autumn evenings are chilly,
and damp, no good for his chest.