The Old Wax Jacket

MY OLD WAX JACKET.

There it hangs upon the hook,
thats screwed into a hidden nook,
in this place that I dwell,
and many a story it could tell.

Many creases in it`s fabrice,
many tears in it`s cloth,
many items in it`s pockets,
many memories not to be forgot.

Left hand side main pocket,
there will be found a lead,
right hand side main pocket,
there is a map to read.

Game pocket to the rear,
has held pheasant and trout so dear,
hand warmers on the chest,
has warmed my hands in frost and wet.

It`s collar is worn,
it`s cuffs are fraid.
It`s hem is torn,
it`s far from how it was made.

On sodden fields and wooded glades,
it`s wear has lightened it`s olive shade,
In freezing frost and blazing sun,
it`s helped to carry rod and gun.

But now all seasons are ended,
it`s time for some repair,
a tin of wax and with needle it will be mended,
and once again it`s form I will wear,.

And to out on a winters morning,
or on a autum day,
or on a wet summer afternoon,
or to venture into spring weather come what may.

I look forward to each wearing,
for whatever adventure is on the way,
maybe it`s not for the discerning,
but it will do for me I say.

End.