When the commonplace makes you stop and see ...

I saw a homeless man today among the macadam and cement bones of The Street.
We have many in this city of bones and misery.

Whatever his life had once contained of beauty and of love is long forgotten now. More than forgotten, buried and dead.

All lust for glory and power reduced to a bottle held in his arms like a sacrament.

He was, it seemed, removed of all worries and luxuries but one.

He had time, nothing but time.

Find a shelter, sing a hymn, get a meal, get a bottle sometimes. Get caught up in a sweep, sleep in a cell and then get out. Giving thanks for the warmth of the day even as he lays sodden, from the relentless rain while fearing the eventual return of winter.

In winter life grows hard. But cling to life he must, there seems to be no choice.

I watched in silent awe as his graceless form lay back against a wall that only slightly sheltered him from the rain.

He closed his eyes, I presume, to sleep and I wished him the 'Dreams of mountains, as in their sleep they brood on things eternal.'