The crows are in good voice…caw…caw…

The crows are in good voice…caw…caw…

An old man and the sea.

Did once you look so different?

As ageless as time

The passing of years

Writ in deep-grained lines

Painted there for as long as I can remember

The weft of your white beard

As flecked as sea foam

Stretching as long as the road

Leading from your door

To the peninsular

Where the old lighthouse stands

A bone-thin finger pointing skyward

As the stars look down upon us, endlessly.

Your sharp eyes crinkle at the edges

Where tears gather,

Damned in lachrymose mirth

Or more likely pain and sadness

And yet I sometimes wonder,

As nothing seems to move you

Further than before

Or ever shall be after.

In the ides of winter

When the rain cuts through soft skin

Shards of ice fall from roofs

As jagged knives,

Splintering upon impact,

You walk snowbound streets

With old socks wrapped around your blackened feet

Pale blue eyes fixed

On some other distant point

Far far away.

When was this any different?

It has always seemed to me so

Reminiscent of those golden times

Before the old stories were written

For children

When Magi wandered

Far and wide their visions to impart

For nothing more than an inglenook

A hot meal and a warm blanket.

I can see you as the tides turn

A smile on your face

And can’t help but wonder

What you might be thinking

As you stand, a statue by a broken gate

Like a guardian of safekeeping.