Sometimes I see a man out and about, a cunning craftsman of sorts
At least that is what I like to call him
Now it’s not that he’s all that cunning really
Or much of a craftsman for that matter
But there is just something about him, something that makes me believe that he could be
I really don’t know, maybe it’s down to the odd colour of clothing he wears
Or the etched upon his face frown which seems all too part of him
A face that more or less makes all passersby hand him some money
With his greener than green farmer cap peaked downwards
All of the fingers on his right hand trembling as though looking for a place to go
Something terrible for sure
But no place to go except back inside the sockets from which they came
I have to wonder, if it is the Arthritis that blights him
Then how is it that he is able to stop trembling when the time comes for him
To count his winnings
Before you know it he’s standing taller than tall, farmer’s cap pocketed
Along with enough coins to make any one person dance, pin-prick size fingers on
Either hand
And a smile that lets you know that he might be about to go and enjoy himself a few
Too many pints
His name is Harold, a cunning craftsman of sorts