Clean

Troll asque like but not like
flapping
wings
whispers
only moments
stare beyond the veil

Two old men
in comraderie walking
In Minorca
land of paradise.
Sun cooled by the sea
Smiles
we are not our skin
Crows feet, squinting from the sun
the air is clean.
The breaths they take pure
souls unknowingly accepting
the seasons
with a  smile.

Simple bread
ascetic
love and acceptance of self.
Meat is the stasis, steady
line walked
work is the bread,
glorious comfort
is the pillow clean.

Wings to the men of Minorca
if I could ever walk their trail
not for want
but for acceptance
temptation
and longing
could I be clean.