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He stands alone beside the loft,
A flat cap on his head.
Enraptured by the setting sun,
Where the sky is turning red.
Caught in the glory of the hour,
A whippet by his side.
He feels a glow of happiness,
Which his actions cannot hide. |
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He wears a jacket, far too large.
A scarf around his neck.
He waits now for his absent birds,
The pied cock, and the check.
Small in stature, body strong,
A true and honest eye.
He feels a joy of living
That money can not buy. |
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His feet are clad in mining boots.
His hair now snowy white.
And if his birds get safely home
He'll sleep content tonight.
And as the sun sinks in the West,
His birds drop from the sky.
And the joy of living, in his heart,
Is glowing in his eye. |
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