He Speaks of AngelsThe old man stands on the corner of Victoria Street wearing a pair of white trainers with three blue chevrons down the outside, almost new yet, without laces. His trousers, a dirty grey cloth held above his fragile, protruding hips with a length of off-white cord fastened in a bow. Perched upon his pointed shoulders he hefts an old, dark green tweed jacket, brown patches at the elbows fading to a rusty cream where years of painful, arthritic motion have worn the leather paper thin. The crowds of people seem to blur past him as I watch from where I sit across the street. Their eyes never once acknowledging his presence. Their movements seem guided, as if to avoid him and I feel that I would not be surprised should someone pass through him, as if it were just myself that can perceive his being. The pale, leathered skin upon his face with its decades of experience shows the small scars of mistakes that we all collect without our realising. The lines and creases of a million frowns and a thousand smiles. The eyes set deep in shadowed sockets ringed by age and hurt. Those eyes that search for contact, questing relentlessly for someone to meet his gaze. He looks through me, still searching. And I wonder, what thoughts flicker behind those watery, blue, avian eyes. He blinked merely twice in the last minute. I counted. He alternates between pointing one smooth skinned hand at the passing phantoms, busy in their other realm and shaking his tight, white fist into the air. The nails upon his fingers long and broken, dull in lustre and sharp to the touch. In the other parchment paper hand he holds a battered leather bound book. The title worn to nothing by years of tightly grasping, white knuckled fingers. The edges of the pages seem yellow and feathered by constant readings. Angry vitreous words and stern accusations of guilt literally spill from his thin-lipped mouth. Stained teeth bared as his litany of damnation seethes from his raw throat. He looks towards me again. A brief pause amidst his narration. A slight guttural stop. And his gaze moves on, although somewhat awkwardly. Feeling a little cheated of a confrontation, I rise from the seat, shoo away the pigeons from around my feet and walk away, casting the odd, curious glance towards the old man until I can see him no longer. And I too become a phantom amongst the crowds. Copyright J.Hill (Subz / spiralDancer) |