Seeing (D7 NaPoWriMo)


The beggar left the village
In haste a raggedy crowd in tow,
Derided pelted and harangued.
But still his head he held high,
For with each town he visited,
It was always so,
And no lower could he sink.

The green shaded balm
Of forest before him beckoned.
And he entered the expanse of trees,
Plunged into the salve
Of its verdant, restorative depths.

The song of bird and beetle
Sounded softly under bough’s
Torpid metronomic whisper,
Accompanied by the wind.

The forest cleansed him of the Town.

And as he lay, words whirling,
Waiting for the verse to find them,
His faded lyre at rest beside him,
A ray of afternoon sun fell
And lit the shadow between
Two young reaching saplings,
And something winked within.

He reached and clasped
A shining eye-shaped stone.
And as a clearing mist,
Abruptly he saw clearly.

Chances washed by fate away,
The shape of Pain to come,
And darkness hidden behind
Those big bright smiles,
Knives honed on stone-like souls,
He saw and shuddered.

Far far away, an Old Man
Adjusted his hat, expression grim.
For seeing all is not necessarily
As fortuitous a stroke of luck
As it would, at first sight, seem to be.

© Greg Richards

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