The old priest stands at the lights
hands thrust into his night black coat
against the cold
then crosses the highway.
No grassy park this
but an untamed place
and a wild creek
down from the hills.
Each evening he walks
where the welcome relief from the suburbs
turns into unreasonable darkness
two scandal seeking teens
fled to the safety of the school security lights
while he clambered through the gorge
to the bare hills and the wind.
And would return pale
sleeping exhausted into the morning.
And broke the untidy loaves
with clean hands
and a calm heart.
Would you like to comment?
I have turned off the feedback module due to constant spamming. However, if you would like to comment, or discuss a post, you are welcome to email me using the link at the bottom of this page, and I may include your comments at the bottom of this article.