A wanderer

There he sat

The old man with a hat;

Under the tree,

Looking so free..

His ashen face, with lines of tire,

Making it known he worked with fire.

His eyes didn't shine

But he did not whine,

For he seemed to know

There is sun, rain and snow,

And that, life has many more seasons

Existing in for great grand reasons.

His clothes were tattered,

His belongings battered;

He appeared to have travelled

With him being gravelled,

Throughout the world, far and wide

In dust and roads, seas and tide..

His calloused hands

May have worked in sands

For they bore the mark

Of toil and labour; scarry and dark.

He might have seen joy and pain,

Youth and senility, beauty and vain.

But now he simply sat, looking so free

Hat on his head, under the tree..