No ratings.
A wearable friend and protector. |
MY OLD WAX JACKET. There it hangs upon the hook, thats screwed into a hidden nook, in this place that I dwell, and many a story it could tell. Many creases in it`s fabrice, many tears in it`s cloth, many items in it`s pockets, many memories not to be forgot. Left hand side main pocket, there will be found a lead, right hand side main pocket, there is a map to read. Game pocket to the rear, has held pheasant and trout so dear, hand warmers on the chest, has warmed my hands in frost and wet. It`s collar is worn, it`s cuffs are fraid. It`s hem is torn, it`s far from how it was made. On sodden fields and wooded glades, it`s wear has lightened it`s olive shade, In freezing frost and blazing sun, it`s helped to carry rod and gun. But now all seasons are ended, it`s time for some repair, a tin of wax and with needle it will be mended, and once again it`s form I will wear,. And to out on a winters morning, or on a autum day, or on a wet summer afternoon, or to venture into spring weather come what may. I look forward to each wearing, for whatever adventure is on the way, maybe it`s not for the discerning, but it will do for me I say. End. |