It is the wise man who is wary

It is the wise man who is wary

Of a windfall

The brightest berries

Are not always the ones

With the sweetest taste

Too many fail to heed the warning

Alchemists profit

From such foolish folly

On market day

Peddling restoratives

Outside the village hall

For the price of a fish supper

There is a chill to country air

When the sun sets

Before the rimed edge

Of sharp frost cuts through

Un-callused skin

Heavy is the old plough

Pulled by the rugged shire

Tilled by sinewy farm lads

Drowning in sweat

With not an ounce of fat between them

Weary is their day

Before the sun has fully risen

School books hidden beneath the hay

Dreams of a higher calling

Put on hold

As cold nights draw closer

The space between them shorter

The sun grows dimmer

As it skirts the edge

Of the topfield

Slipping quickly down as winter

Squeezes out the last dregs

Of summer’s ripened fruit

The river, running fast beneath

The grey stone bridge

An ancient link

Between old lands and the city

Where the whisper is of

Minarets and towers

With golden futures

Waiting for the dreamer

Blindly rushing onward

Ever nearer to the fall

Of new world’s end

The wise man is more wary

Than to believe in lack

Of consequence

More content to bide his time

In accumulation

Than to pander in speculation

Laying the ground for progress

Harvesting knowledge

As his bounty

Before pausing

To reflect

On the purpose of a new direction

Gaining purchase with every

Measured step

Before looking up

And reaching for the stars