I behold him single, <br />walking on the street <br />and his face is covered <br />by the long black cloak <br />that the evening wind <br />bristles against. <br /> <br />From a distance he looks <br />like a ancient priest, <br />or somebody trying to <br />get the better <br />of the foggy raining weather. <br /> <br />Something sinister is in his step <br />and I have seen him before <br />and the knowledge of it, <br />brings the hair on my arms to life. <br /> <br />I greet him like a old friend <br />and he smiles at me <br />like regular passers on the street do <br />and his voice is part of the wind: <br /> “I am not coming for you, yet.” <br /> <br />The moonlight glitters yellow <br />in a crescent shape in the sky <br />and falls on the sickle in his hand <br />and death walks by, <br />to take away the very pulse of life <br />somewhere nearby <br />and he’s in a hurry to be in time <br />before destiny’s clockwork reach its mark. <br /> <br />Down the street <br />I hear a young man sobbing <br />in a old white house <br />where all the lights <br />are burning a soft yellow <br />and just for a moment, <br />the solitary reaper hesitates <br />before unnoticed <br />he walks through the door.<br /><br />Gert Strydom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-solitary-reaper-3/
