The hermit (Archived)

The beast has woke
in his cave,
Why was he called a beast
this mysterious loner...
clearly he’s a hermit
living alone, eating out of bins,
I see him now
Oh, he’s putting rubbish in the bins
Oh, I see he has a friend
A child. A girl. A daughter?
A woman calls round. She stays for four hours. Smile on her face.
He is smiling too, standing at the tap.
He has time to talk to the postman, an old friend?
and when he does leave home,
To church
I follow and see
He paints in his over grown garden
on a Friday
I know ‘cause that’s when I was sent home from school
He snarls at the dog
Talks to the milkman
listens to the people pushing
religion on his doorstep
He is polite. Trims his flowers,
Does not leave his house and garden
Except for Sundays
when he goes to church
Follow him and see
wait up. He doesn’t go out in the evenings
What does he live on?
Takeaways and deliveries ordered from Tesco.Com
That woman comes knocking
‘Thought you’d forgotten’ I hear him say,
Brother and sister, I bet you
They go into the living room
Talk a while,
Awkward pauses in between cups of coffee
He looks so sad,
sitting on the sofa.
Not wanting to talk, sulky like a child
Itching to be painting
See him in the mornings
By the window
watching the world go by
How do I get a message to him?
Admire his patience
What is he waiting for?
I think his half smile
(revealed rarely)
is cute,
I talk to my mum about him
she convinces herself (not me) It was unrequited love
she sighs, reckons it’s romantic
Maybe someone has let him down,
I follow him to the church
sit by him
Maybe God has let him down?
‘Bloody weirdo’ my dad mutters warning me away. Stop my spying.
Well, I stopped ‘til I was excluded from school and I got back to thinking about this neighbour - the tortured soul,
with strong hands, carrying his easel into the garden
Concentrating tongue between his teeth
I wish I could paint clouds like he does,
Forgets the time
The girl looks in on him,
A voluntary work?
It can't be helped the aged,
He’s not a day over 35
I look on the net.
He could be insane. An ex offender. Homeless, helpless.
He doesn’t look like any of them
He doesn’t play with knives, or fire. No lingering looks.
I haven’t seen him angry
not even when the washing machine broke was he cross
He clasped his hands together, said a prayer and was calm
I follow him to Church
hear his light steps
Heavy breathing.
He looks straight ahead, without stopping
Won’t pause to say hello to people on the street
(does he know what they say about him? Hope not)
Try to pass him
he ignores polite ‘hellos’
and ‘how are you’s’
He’s shy. Must be rude. Deaf and dumb
Face flushed in from the cold
To the silent, Holy atmosphere
of the Church.
Listen to readings
He plays with the zipper on his coat
He listens, prays and paints
I have not seen him sleep,
Haven’t seen him howl at a full moon either
I think we’re safe
He’s not some kind of beast
He’s a stranger, becoming stranger still
A lonely figure
In a rain coat
Waiting for his sister and the girl to visit,
Cleaning his shoes
Mouthing words to the tunes on the radio
Sees the day through with a grim smile, gritted teeth
He goes around his house doing menial tasks
Typing at a computer
What is this guys problem?
This weirdo neighbour,
The hermit with so many days to fill
sitting on the sofa
Can’t seem to concentrate
on the words in a book
music, the television on
Background noise
Wonder who?
Where
he came from?
I am going around there to find out
now....