The Stranger’s Grace

The stranger arrived five days ago.

I see him stride along the storm-line

Stooped and blood weary

Yet resistant to surrender,

Walking miles with himself

Watched by those inside

Warm by fires, wondering

Does he want friendship?

Is he hungry to be seen

And sit shoulder to shoulder

With us as the dogs do?

He was not expected,

This tall, turkey-necked, solitary man

Thin to emaciation.

But he owns himself without pride

And grace becomes him.

Is he nobody, with nothing

But the hair on his head?

Has he loved?  Did she die?

Does he mourn and carry her inside

Reminding him of everything most cherished?

Did they sit across a small table

With gentle meals shared between

Sinewy arms open to one another?

Does he live with love still

Nestled in gristle and bone?

Is that his Grace?

I will set out from my warm cottage

To catch him up at the headland

Where wind’s the fiercest.

He can show me how to see

My poverty as the evening sky

Lit by first stars.

On returning I shall light candles

In every window

So he might walk in.

When has Grace not set us free

Safe home from lonely years?