The Edge of Night

    By Ian McDonald

 

Watchman by the seawall koker

twenty years I met him on my walks

seawind and sunset I see recalling him.

He smoked his curly pipe, we talked

fireflies sparking in the low, protected fields.

Ian McDonald
Ian McDonald

I often thought what a life he’s lived

but what a life is any life that’s lived.

He was old when he began this job

guardian of the tidal gates of town.

Got away from a rum-soaked father’s home

wandered far to other lonely lands

and home again he never built a home

or had one woman or concerned himself with God

“Ah live from then to now an’ don’ remember how.”

Eyes far away as stars beyond our counting

an old man stranded on the edge of night.

Long ago he was a forest guide

went with Museum teams in Essequibo

and made a name for his strange collections.

One day he brought for their inspection

a black and shiny scorpion whose helmet-head was gold

They honoured him, he was named discoverer

the keepsake plaque engraved in Latin script.

I tell him it is beautifully done

he gestures, the sea in tumult rises at our feet.