Keith

Kinder folk may smile at him,
passing on some forest track
or when he makes rare visits to the town,
receiving in return a nod, but rarely words.
Others merely point and laugh
or spray graffiti on his shack.
He does not care: it is no more
than sheltered space to sleep.
His home is all around him,
under the enfolding arms
of his true friends, the trees.
He knows their ways, their changes,
lives with them the times
of dying and rebirth.

It is his business to ensure
their immortality – and his.
Town dwellers have no clue
there is a purpose in the twisted
trails he threads between the trunks
and in the unclaimed patch of sunlit ground.
He gathers acorns, and he walks
so many steps this way, so many that,
an exercise in precise geometry,
pressing them gently in soft earth.
Those who mock don’t know his name,
but theirs will die with them.
His will rise in oak
and live a thousand years.