You walked ever so slowly, along James Street, in your long, fawn, padded anorak, over your long rubber, or leather, or rubber look wellington style boots. You are not from around here, or have you been here forever.
With your weather worn face, you appear to have walked into unsteady times, the winds though are less now than in your past. The surgery; if that is where you are going, is only a few hundred yards, and now, once again the sun is beginning to shine. I only caught a glimpse of you, so why should I think of Chernobyl, or Bosnia, or Kazakhstan.
And you know, I too am not from these parts, though I feel to settle and sit more easily here than how I imagine it is for you. Are you in exile; are you lost, are you lonely, do my words come too fast? Ok, I will try to slow down, wander about in my cathedral mind, or recall the church with the beggar, in the Kos summer sun; another place where all I did was look.
