Footprints

He walks down the pebbled path

air smells like burning wood,

every breath is an epiphany,

hands in pocket

back hunched,

an individual walks in a dissimilar world.

cap and eyes knowing,

he walks each day 

going to the pub

and he comes home

each day and sits by the stove and close-line, alone in a two room cottage.

I look out the raindrop window

how can this be all this mans life? 

how can he live a life so lonely;

mountains surround us

the green is flattened by hooves

dancing ladies are so rare this time of year.

broken stone fences

black edges.

the grey haired man speaks to me each day

his mother died last april 

many cannot understand his brogue and impairment,

but he still speaks 

his eyes, i mistook for longing

he walks not waiting for his hour on the stage

and perhaps that is the greatest gift God gave him,

the ability to understand he will never be a main character--

and that very misunderstanding is what kills many more souls.

so he walks to Tully from the edge of the world,

a town where content souls whisper about.

he knows his epilogue is coming,

their old eyes still feel love and hate and fear

but they, like gods, can smile in the face of it;