Where the Blackbirds Cry

There's an old man fishing down at the creek;

everyday he fishes his heart out.

He waits everyday at the creek for a bite,

never does he complain; not once has he ever flinched.

He sits there, waiting for the fish to bite;

the rain falls hard upon that man.

As the years go by, he never moves an inch;

he was a child, now he's a broken man.

The fish never bite, his eyes start to fade;

over the years his back becomes haunched.

No longer is he known as the fisherman,

years of torment have left his mind completely wrecked;

he is referred to as a broken man;

he bleeds from black and weathered hands.

As a fisherman he commanded respect,

now an old man holds pity by the hand.

There was rain when he left his fishing spot;

he walked that day, straight into the fog.

Nobody saw his face on that rainy night;

he walked alone, just as as he had for his whole life;

his footsteps were silent, leaving the woods in fright.

Only the blackbirds heard him cry,

their melancholy songs caused the end of his life;

the blackbirds alone saw his mud stained eyes.

His yellow coat sits in the mud today.

Today it's black, from years in the mud.

Not even the blackbirds remember his face,

generations have taken him from memory.

Grass dances around his favorite place,

where alder trees begin to grow.  

No one cries for him, they have no memory;

not even the blackbirds give him sorrow.

        DannYetman

http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/