Ragged and disheveled, lost in reverie
He sat under the skeletal tree
Lamenting his poverty.
The icy wind sliced through his clothes
The din of the maddening world
Around him unfurled.
Was Hope really the thing with feathers?
A little lark singing in the dark?
A glowworm glowing bright?
A cat cavorting in the lunar night?
Alas, there was no hope for those stricken with poverty.
He wrung his hands, gritted his teeth
Hunched he sat, eyebrows bunched.
Then he drifted into sleep
Covered by night’s dark attire, deep.
The night slept too.
Hey what was that? Was it a coup?
In the east, there was beauty cascading in abundance
Sparkling water, laughing sunshine, golden slivers in the creek
And birds gold-streaked.
Someone out there was spinning magic.
Beholden, at nature’s poetry, tired eyes, he rubbed
Mesmerisingly watching an untiring spider
Weaving dreams on a shrub
Nature strode forward open –armed
The beggar was charmed.
The sun went into an orgy of kissing
The branches, the bushes, the terraces, the leaves
The roofs, the spires, the patio, the awnings, the eaves.
One sunbeam clung to his lips
Drenching him to his fingertips
Aha, the poor man, was in luck
In his life poverty –stricken, gold had been struck.
The hues of nature had enveloped this cast-off into its fold.
Wherever he looked, there was gold!