Silence
He was doing his own thing
to the point of selflishness
or was he lost in anguish
and those long walks
were just hurried hidden
or backward blown?

the morning smell of frying trout
was a story in itself
but never told or witnessed
those trips to the cross river
in darkness laboured
alone by a misting river bank
with thoughts so guarded

Oh those rarest moments joyous
on Friday nights
on lacquered lino
at my masters feet
content
were way too few to judge
or spoil

the walk together to the river
was silent too
yet my heart screamed exuberance
and every fish in every pool
was prayed to
and danced the dance
for his amusement.

I watched him as his life was ending
through misty darkness from afar
i watched as others gathered around him
and wondered what their stories were
as prayers were tumbling from their lips
and tears were gathered for the fall
I slipped away in quiet resignment
to bustling streets
where scant regard is paid to tears
or fallen idols
or dancing trout
or silent sons

Learn more about this author, Joe Mcevoy.
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