• alisdaire_ocaoimph 6w

    Bitter the cap

    His old brow hides
    Its manifestation
    Beneath the cap
    One that traveled the years
    To pit then home again
    A saddened ritual of conformity
    The numbered days, sweeping years
    That turned a dark haired youth
    To gray, to balding
    Where drifting like the years
    Aching to the groans of time
    He would piddle away
    In his garden alone
    Dreaming the follies of his youth
    The chances given, faded, died.
    The cap held all his secrets,
    It had laughed upon the whiskey flow
    Danced in the town hall
    It had seen it all from its prestigious spot
    It hangs in the cloak room
    Bitter the cap
    Spending its days on a hook
    But how it holds the treasures
    Of my grandfathers tales.

    Alisdaire O'Caoimph
    ©alisdaire_ocaoimph