Hair charred coal
Suit eyes steel grey
Advanced age quite old
Youthful years far away
Seated on benches
Leaning on fences
Untroubled life became his forte
Though his looks don't show it
This self proclaimed poet
Who wears tattered clothes
Is a master of prose
And renowned storyteller
Indeed once a better off feller
Medaled in the Battle of Wits
Along shady paths noon summer nips
Thoughts calmly drift back to a time
Slowly then briskly reflection flooding his mind
Restfully blest in this melodic theme
As if playing lead in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"
Stirred by clamor directly above
Attesting to passion compelled by her love
A fledgling Jay's mother defending her darling
Her fight in flight graceful yet hostile to swarming rogue starlings
This horrendous resonance though his ears pierced
Through pursed lips reciting "Though she be but little, she is fierce ! "