Standing on the wide grey hill

The noontide skyscape hangs heavily

Like fog crafted from artists’ hands

Cities of unease hang invisible in the air.

 

They pour scorn on every hope in his heart

Picturing clouds unfurling with time

And shades of black rolling in on him.

 

A binocular gazer, from a high window

In the distance

Watches and waits, careful and calm

Whilst above the tumult fades with dusk.

 

Inside the bickering starts again

Passive whispers, turn to murmurs of concern

The figure remains silent on the peak

The source of that afternoon’s conversation.

 

Now by the fire orange-bright

Talk turns to him again

To that sorry sight.

 

‘The look of death upon him’

Years later one would say of him

‘He was standing there, for days on end’

‘Turning erratic, like a weathervane

‘An exile frozen, still

‘Without a name’.