Passerby Poem by George Samuel

I sat close to tears
And watch the copper smite make his cheers
Worth of brass a bed under an oak tree
A wet blanket to hide his face he walk some free
Went there daily and begin a joke
Each craftsmanship each day he works
The pleasure prompt rising in every coupled stitch
Full of ease and excitement it switch
Like it was a little while a little long
Here the hammer began to cry of waist pain
Dry leaves and caterpillars descend
Crumbled on his rustic looking woodwork and bend
Each with a touch of sun and rain
He must not need their tattered skills in vain
Their fading green reveal their hilding to life
Reminds him of the grieving old oak growing stiff
Used to the shade and shadow of the sun
The dryness of the maritime rainbow warm
Charm of season silk sea
From the very living of life to speak
All his hard handiwork could provide
Only a minor bed a wheel chair under an oak
In this once he lifted his hammer high
Upon his two withered corpse to the sky