Warmth

Cautiously walking the back streets of Woodstock; memories of a mugging keep my wits about me. Many people brush passed me & naked children totter on the pavements. Nobody looks me in the eye – not the locals in their night gowns nor the hipsters on their fixies. In a land that seems full of rape horrors & media tribunals, this weary optimist could do with a friendly face.

The only warmth I received was from an elderly man. Long & wiry in a blue jersey, crusty & worn. Held up by a trolley with only 2 wheels littered with scraps & street side trinkets; perhaps all his worldly treasures.

Acknowledging me with a nod of the head & quietly wishing me well for my day ahead. I wonder if he knows I saw God in his deep brown face.

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