In soft spring rain he stood,
arms crossed,
wearing a coat as grey as they sky,
talking to himself.
Uttering,
what seemed nonsensical mutterings.
But, to him the poetry
of the world flowed from his lips,
gentle splutterings
announcing the suffering
of those born in thrust and betrayed by seeds of greed.
With grim lips pursed
we shake our heads in passing,
some - not so subtle
laughing at his ways.
In soft, spring rain he stood,
arms crossed,
wearing a coat as grey as the sky,
talking, not to himself,
but to us,
the passersby.

Michelle McAuliffe