3 March 2013
The man and staff walked, over hill and mountain, talked To me of a time long ago when he was a boy, growing up With just a father and a void of affection, a reflection Of his fathers past childhood lost in evacuation living with others who Were not unkind, but not interested very much in the mechanics of The mind; 'Daydreamers don't put bread on the table' they said 'Writers are not able to win wars so instead of All those words and all those pictures, why don't you help fetch Water from the well' and on a Sunday he was forced To recite The Scriptures, no play time, no mind time, No writing, no imagination in a war
But times change. The man with the staff became An author, made his living half with the words in his head And half with his hands with the help of his son and daughter
'Son', he says, looking out over the mountain into a Sunday sunrise 'Be aware that things change, life changes, throws up....' 'Surprises?' I offered 'Yes, surprises; just because today maybe dark Don't imagine for a second it will stay that way' 'I love you' I told the old man with the staff suddenly And he looked at me and weeped. There is hidden sunrise in an old man's tired eyes, And possibilities I was allowed, at least, to keep.
An Old Man, A Mountain, A Sunrise • Opuss № I