The Teller of Tales

He was an old man,
Weathered and wrinkled
From years of toil
Under a relentless sun,
With a calmness bred
Of a peace within.

He had lived a life he loved
And loved the life he lived,
Was beholding to no one,
Regurgitating memories
Of days past
And long ago times.

He told of faraway places,
Ships at sea,
Riding the range,
Mining a claim,
Working the oil rigs,
And dancing a jig.

He was a bit of a philosopher,
Dropping bits of wisdom
And lessons learned along the way,
For every story had a point
And every point had a story,
As he rambled on.

He had met scoundrels and saints,
And I suppose
He was a mix of the two,
But there was a flavor to his words
That intoxicated me
With the spirit of the road.