THE VISIT
Every year just before Christmas we’d visit an old man,
To cheer him up and help him out seemed to be the plan.
He lived down the lane, in a shack near the old bone mill,
Of teasing him all year the boys never ever had their fill.
A box of coal for his fire, some food we could hardly spare,
A bottle of wine, and some home knit socks he could wear,
I always waited by the old gate as the adults went inside
For I found it very hard for me deep down my fears to hide.
He used to shake his stick at us if we stopped too close by,
And there always seemed to be a fierce look in his eye.
One year dad was sick and granny was far from well
So mom and I went down the lane to where he did dwell.
We filled my red wagon that I pulled, mom carried the rest,
With fear in my heart I knocked, here came the great test,
Would I be turned to a stone if he looked close right at me?
For that is the tale that was told with a stone statue for all to see.
He opened the door and let us in, the room was small and clean,
Thanked us very kindly, his need for things could be easily be seen,
A piece of cheese a slice of bread and water seemed to be his meal,
A cut on his arm which my mom treated hoping it would soon heal.
I looked into his eyes and all fear left as he placed me on his knee,
‘Now little one, do you think you could sing a Christmas song for me.’
Mom and I together sang many carols, can more come tomorrow?
The whole neighbourhood came along removing years of sorrow.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson 30 December 2004