LEVI


At ninety he walked fourteen miles, there and back,

to visit a married grand-daughter.

I remember those heavy, studded boots

clumping by the side of our house to the back door.



He sat on a kitchen chair between bookcase and cooker,

sipping the tea mother had brewed; she, busy at the sink,

flung conversation over her shoulder; I stared, silent.

He was brown and wrinkled beyond my comprehension of time.



And that name; Levi, keeper of the Law,

a stout walking Bible-Christian. He knew the way

with a certainty acquired on the rough road of years;

pot-bank, pulpit, outdoor revival meetings on Mow Cop

roaring Alleluias into the fierce wind.



And now, here he was, so small, so seeming frail, those boots

barely touched the floor. And gentle of voice,

rough hands holding cup and saucer delicately,

yet steady as the Old Man of Mow himself.




He stayed only a short while, then was off

to continue his journey; it was the first and last time

I saw him, though more than fifty years later he remains

fixed in memory. Who knows where any road leads?










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