The old man of Far
Is this
what we dare without seeing,
Without being,
our bare hands held up
In a
sunshine salutation, a gratitude?
Smoke twists
and curls in languid strokes
In the
garden below where the old man smokes.
He plays
backgammon as he exhales
An
enigmatic life strewn across continents.
Some say
he is waiting, but not what for,
Inventing
him a story because he won’t let on.
The creases
in his face laugh with the bait.
White hair,
cracked smile, skinny gait.
He lives
alone with his wiry, half-deaf mutt;
Some say
the hound makes all the decisions.
His stumpy
tail, thinner than my ring finger,
Wags for
England when he claps eyes on me.
He loves
us all in his simple canine way,
But the
old man barely acknowledges us today.
I watch
his gnarled hands push the pieces,
Grey smoke
carving a sacred sort of lullaby,
And I want
to ask him if he still has dreams.
Instead I take him another cup of mint tea.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 19 2020
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