I can remember when he was strong.
More then any other man I knew,
The weather could not stop his work –
But found easier things to do.
The harvest was no match for him,
Sometimes despite the pouring rain.
His strong arms shelved the hay bales,
Broad shoulders, sacks of grain.
Then one winter, he was invaded,
By an enemy of the mind.
Yet the changes came on slowly,
Like a shadow from behind.
Not caring, if the day was bright or cloudy,
Or the horses left running wild;
Broken fences went unrepaired,
The light slowly dimming in his blue eyes.
Then one day he just stopped talking,
As if words were some affliction to his means.
I still believe he did not die in that silence,
But from the total lack of dreams.
© Fingleton (Juin 2016) (Löst Viking)