A Winter's Tale

It was clearing up in the afternoon
fingers of sunlight lit up the olive grove
a slight mist and a bizarre story
I saw him the old man dressed
in a soil dark suit, with a jute sack over his shoulder
picking up lost souls.
This time, of the year there is many.
The clouds in the sky have many hues some are black
others rosy
and ephemeral shifting colours with the light,
pushed by the wind
Church bell tolls before noon.
This miasma of ages,
stubbing a toe on the exposed root of an olive tree
when trying to follow the track of yesterday.
It has no future
What was it all for?
Is there a god?
The end is silence