Old Cyril with his tales of engines
Ploughing fields and suchlike.
The suns he once knew
The light he had walked along.
Seeds been and gone, flowered
To bread, fed people he did not know.
Wheels taking time with each turn
Under the clouds that quietly gathered.
They sucked up the words he said
Then rained them down on his retirement.
Now he sits with newspaper words
The only conversation he has left.
