a bench in the woods

In the brightest green they shine
trees around his marble face
overgrown with joy and vine
sits the old man in his place
looking all around benign
knowing this is not a race

Next to him a leafless mess
wood is shattered dark and grey
an angel lies there in his dress
his face shows sorrow and dismay
his clutching hands his hopelessness
his demeanor shows decay

If you listen closely you can hear
the slow approach of death
the angels wings are beating air
an uplifting in his chest
and with the finish line so near
he shuts his eyes to rest.