A Threadbare Life (Rustic Ruminations) Poem by Orin MSH

A villager lives his threadbare life
And thrusts his breast upon the wind
And crouch down close on the dirt path
The dusty sun looks matte and dim
There in this living not all is strife
But also comely daughters and wife
Who's happy whether in peace or wrath
That troubles the sleep of simple folks
That tills the land and breathes the smoke
Waters the patch and clears the trail

The villager, did chance upon
A sole traveler with a scruffy smile
Who said "O! Really it has been awhile
For me to have any real companion;
Only beasts in the wild dominion"
The villager replied "O! So have I
The creeks and crags we did pass by
Were my one and only stony friend
For all the others have moved on
To fair cities where the rivers end
Except for the few that stands
With hearts so rent, and souls so torn
But here I am of the red-mud, born."
Loose tattered clothes, ripped haversack
They talked of lands with hills that sag
Amidst the din of rushing water
Clamor of fishes tousling with river-otters
The brooks that babble in the deep woods
They are the chaps of green that could
Whisper to clouds above the sleet
And master the quiet Sylvan language
Of tangled roots and vines that creep
Enmeshed upon the barks and foliage.

The fellow told me his uncanny journeys
Through ghostly towns and pale harbors
Searching for riches and renown
But knowing all their darkest hour
That drears the soul and dries the bones
And scalps the being, red on the grass
A death where no one dares to look
And cares for wounds, that blows the brook
In forest glades, to rest at last
With crickets, gnats and graying moss
To sleep away this pain and loss
Disturbs the restful humble folks
The lusterless sun that to us spoke
Of how the sky is glum across.

This slovenly prophet has divined
With dreams of woods charred with the soot
Windthrown, windsnapped out of its roots
To toil in anguish without merriment
The time has come now for The End
When stricken trees shall bear no leaf
The villager and traveler, the last two
Of the woeful world given to grief
To face whatever's to ensue

The lone peasant told this wanderer:
"When all we've gained has come to end
The life was good, a pleasure indeed
The apocalypse's passed and left us friends
There to endure through all that errs
Now let us sow this fragile seed
Lush verdurous plot of gold that fares
Sweet trees that scrape the sullen skies
The vagabond gripped his bony chest
And said, "No doubt, all that remains
We two have stood the grueling test
Through solitude and dull remorse;
The pain and suffering no man has known
We wait for the grasses to be blown
Through the fields that nobody owns
As the wind stutters in the evening rain."

"And frankly to you must I tell this truth
The old midwife and her shambling youth
No more do they walk upon this earth
His dungaree and her gum-stained apron
Are now frayed flags on their kindled thatch
Old leaves that bear the trampling on
The oaks asunder, all roots and branches
And there were two that stood before
Now I alone, the sole survivor
Quail eggs, stale bread that you gave
Shall be my glorious supper
Until I have to be going
To sleep where they, unvoiced, rave
Down this shallow, unmarked grave."

(Orin Marlais Keat: 5th August 2022)