I thought him first a ferryman, but I was wrong.
He wore the night as one walks with a cane.
Slipping on an ancient body, he was an old
hand to assist you in your crossings.
Next, I thought of him a sentinel & maybe I
am right. He watches the night closely as I count
time striking at midnight before the new year. His
black suit scarcely moving in the wind. His eyes
an orb of midnight oil, brooding as crows
Casting shadows in this street in middle
of the town square. I first ran into him,
waving my passport, asking him where was Kipling
station. He pointed it to me in the map & even
gave me tips to reach the airport. I thanked him
as if he was a locksmith. He brushed it off, saying
the city can be a puzzle
if you don't know north & south, east & west
in his grave watchman's voice.
That's me, confused as a lost cloud
With a ring of copper keys on my hand.
He said, a bunch of keys confused him. He prefers
one fishing line & hook.
I was getting on my way when another man
approached him for help on directions.
He said that I am not a wand maker but I can show
you where to fish, where the water pulls, how to reel
in a catch
It now occured to me what he really was.
He is a tide maker.
He listens to the currents & shapes the tides.
He catches the moon and puts it
inside the street lamp.
And he holds the one silver key to close & open it
To whoever knocks at his door
and ask him
Please, give me back my secrets.
Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: Exploring the Narrative Voice, with guest host, Ingrid. Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.
