Author's Commentary
My intention was for a very unstructured piece. I realise very few people are still about to review but those who are, I hope you find time to lend a thought.
At the bottom of my road there sits an old man.
Wrapped in tattered, shapeless rags and trailing, filthy beard,
leaning on a scaffold pole salvaged from the dump.
He never asks for money or food, just watches
from under hooded, bushy brows as we all bustle by.
I avoid his eyes and grumbled words of greeting.
"Poor souls gone strange," I think, as he mumbles in a ruined voice.
Surrounded by scabby pigeons like an urban falconer.
I passed him a pound the other day while waiting for a bus.
He smiled, wordlessly, and tapped it with a knarly digit.
It weighed more when he passed it back, a silly trick.
Poor fool, he thinks I still believe in magic.
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