Miss his comforting solidity, <br />The slant of his shoulders - <br />Even his cardinal’s hat: <br />Its corners so riveted to his cranium <br />They had squared off his head <br />And become as much a part of him <br />As the gnarled hands permanently jammed inside his bark-jacket pockets. <br />There had been a time <br />I could catch an occasional glimpse of him from afar, <br />Ministering stillness and silence to the swaying flock thronging at his feet <br />Like a rock, so rooted with passion for its place in the world, it would never roll. <br />But that was well before he had become obscured <br />By tall walls of green youth <br />Reaching for the ripe skies of adulthood. <br /> <br />He’ll be back though – he always is: <br />For his season’s disciples will bow before the blade, <br />Or fade before the Fall: - <br />It’s the way of it. <br /> <br />I’ll be waiting. <br /> <br />Then will he preach to a broader church <br />Drawn from the soils beneath his soles <br />And souls on the road to wherever they are bound, <br />Who, like me, <br />May well wonder, <br />Might just see <br />The strange yet welcome spirit <br />That is he.<br /><br />Tony Jolley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-one-two/
