Читать книгу Nearsighted - Richard Edwards - Страница 3

The burning leaves produce an acrid smoke

That rises up, only to be caught and held

By an atmospheric inversion, hanging there

Above the tree tops, while the old man jokes

About these Irish lads and the infidels,

His face aglow with deep comfort in fire.

He slips behind the shed, unearths his stash

Of bottled wisdom, glances right and left,

Then tips a slug of warmth down his gullet.

Back before the fire, he fumbles through his coins

And hands me some: “On your way, kid. Be off.

Go spend it on some pretty girl.” I’m eight.

He stands alone tending the fire, eyes glazed;

Out of his ancient past, the Druids re-arise.