The Old One Two Poem by Tony Jolley

Miss his comforting solidity,
The slant of his shoulders -
Even his cardinal’s hat:
Its corners so riveted to his cranium
They had squared off his head
And become as much a part of him
As the gnarled hands permanently jammed inside his bark-jacket pockets.
There had been a time
I could catch an occasional glimpse of him from afar,
Ministering stillness and silence to the swaying flock thronging at his feet
Like a rock, so rooted with passion for its place in the world, it would never roll.
But that was well before he had become obscured
By tall walls of green youth
Reaching for the ripe skies of adulthood.

He’ll be back though – he always is:
For his season’s disciples will bow before the blade,
Or fade before the Fall: -
It’s the way of it.

I’ll be waiting.

Then will he preach to a broader church
Drawn from the soils beneath his soles
And souls on the road to wherever they are bound,
Who, like me,
May well wonder,
Might just see
The strange yet welcome spirit
That is he.