Rough worn boots, overflowing socks.
Baggy trousers lead to synthetic matted jacket.
Age lined face, grey and downy locks.
Shows a man so life worn, can you hack it.
Scunthorpe flats cheerless climbs.
Give rise to the wizened, ordinary mighty man.
Who I fear we no longer breed.
Youngsters find pleasure in acid, he in my company if he can.
We waltz around this desolate waste.
Scanning for feathered beauty as we surround this natural place.
Our foot prints marking the boundary of our efforts.
Which though unseen register joy or disappointment on haggard face.
What's the time?
Scans his watch.
On his hairy arm above his fang stained hand.
Time to depart I recognise.
Leave the traveller, elemental in the sand bleached wonderland.
