Vocation

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Wordsshiftminds

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It was a muffled silence through which the old man trod softly
In the direction of the sea

Only the distant hiss of traffic on the bridge
And the odd bird call, like vowels caught in a dewy web

Some cars betrayed their drivers' defiance
Looming from the dimness unlit
Or with a single offside light
As though heralding the cyclops of a bike
twinkling out of the gloom

The world seemed contained by a dome
The colour of ageing lace fraying in a neglected city window
Black rock crosshatched the shoreline
A rough draft instead of the usual bold and confident lines
Where the shallow sea at least was still and clear
Yet the other side of the bay was not only invisible but seemingly gone

Even the trees hunkered down, were huddled ghosts against it
And the oystercatchers gathered
As a platoon of bored infantrymen on an outcrop
Awaiting orders for the final push
Herons plucked halfheartedly at rockpools
As ducks chuckled further out
While a single hunched kingfisher contemplated
its insubstantial reflection

Droplets of moisture collected in the old man's long hair
And jewelled the damp droop of his beard
Just as later it would cling stubbornly to the wooded valleys
Even after he had gone home
Where, sodden, job done
The fogcatcher would wring his wages from hair and beard
To take stock

The sun was shining, the air was warm
And the sky had cleared

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