The visitor looked shabby and care worn,
But came to see the old, unconscious man,
Who had no visitors before this morn;
Not even one call, since his stay began.
The staff adopted this silent, old swain,
In a coma, and never once awake;
And though they could not tell if he felt pain,
They tried never to cause his bed to shake.
The nurses read him newspapers and books,
And softly whispered lullabies at night.
So, concerned about the visitor’s looks,
They kept the fellow always in their sight.
At first he simply sat and softly sang,
Songs that told a story of days long past;
Sometimes his voice so sonorous it rang,
And seemed to span both time and distance vast.
As they watched, the visitor’s aspect changed.
He played an instrument so shiny bright,
They did not see his clothing, rearranged,
Begin to glow with soft internal light.
The Minstrel’s voice began to rise and soar;
Reverberating up and down the halls.
They felt his power vibrate through the floor,
And shake the artwork hanging on the walls.
Then in their minds they saw the old man’s life;
His childhood, and the time he served in war,
The tragedy that took his son and wife,
And stranded him on depression’s dark shore.
They saw him beat his demons and rebound.
They saw him work to help the homeless poor.
They saw the day that injured, he was found;
Mugged, beaten, left for dead, near his front door.
Awakened by the Minstrel’s serenade,
The old man gazed about him unafraid.
Silently limned in greenish light displayed,
His family around his bed arrayed.
The power of the Minstrel’s voice increased;
A younger man sprang lightly from the bed.
The green light flashed, the sound and fury ceased,
The old man left his body empty, dead.
Although they grieved a little and they cried,
They ne'er forgot the way the old man died.
Mick McKellar
September 2014
Although the cover of a book may be tattered and torn, the pages withered and worn, the story written on those weary pages may change your life -- and others’ -- through the ages.
Mick
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