Old Monster

Old Monster stirs up the hill,

lumbering along the old dirt path,

winding through the trees,

scattering the birds and the leaves.

Old Monster groans and shakes,

fleas and bugs flung from matted

thick fur, dirty and muddy, grayed

and nappy, Old Monster starts his parade.

Old Monster trudges and stomps,

breaking up ancient wooden stumps,

creaking and groaning bones

as it climbs over the moldy thrones.

Old Monster passes the dens and nests,

the hives and the burrows of many

a creature who peek out as it crashes by,

too scared to run, too frightened to fly.

Old Monster sniffs the damp air,

a mildew scent, a smell, wafting in spirals,

through the tall trunks of towering trees,

a snort and a shuffle, hands on old knees.

Old Monster, approaches the summit of

the Old Mountain, in the Old Land, near

the Old Sea. Tired, weak and ancient,

one last peak to make complacent.

Old Monster huffs in great puffs of

cold stiff air, to the mountain top arriving,

in the clearness of the skies above,

all the stars of a universe unknowing of love.

Old Monster looks up into the vastness and

blinks, not much to see in all that darkness,

and then down to the Old Valley, Old Paths

and Old Trees below, in the Old Straths.

Old Monster sees all the love below, in the land,

in the trees, in the grasses and animals, the rain

and the dirt. So much more than just what was at

the top, so much more in the journey than the end.