Duty

By Cliff Lake

 

Duty

 

“Ramshackle”, some said.

“Crude”, they said.

Yet here at the ancient crossroads,

The waystation was yet.

It had stood for untold years,

Welcoming any,

Open to all.

Here the guardsman sat,

Rumor had brought him.

Near farms and homes,

Their children kept close and

Lately daytime shuttered,

Not so approachable to a stranger,

As scant months ago.

A cloud or a mist it was said,

A month past or so had appeared,

Moving out from thick places,

Or from shadow,

Indistinct,

And called deadly.

Now the priest sits across the table,

Offering comfort,

And a talisman.

The guardsman receives both gravely -

Crossroads often harbor the strange.

He is warned against a nighttime hunt,

Though unnecessarily he thinks with a smile,

Night fogs are always dangerous,

Alive or no.

From the nearby window he sees both horse and ass,

The latter carrying the scripted urn – symbolled against escape,

Empty now,

But soon filled with impossible weight.

The guardsman, his arms covered in blurred scars,

Nods in appreciation as the collection is taken up by the locals,

Enough to cover his stay and board,

And maybe a little more.

They do not have much, these farmers and farriers,

But they give freely.

Still, had they not, he would still take the hurt in store,

Duty would allow not less.

He applies the salve that will null the worst of it,

And leaves for the fields.

Behind him several make secret gestures for his comfort,

Or for theirs.

He will be back before nightfall…

Or he will not.

The door is closed against the fear,

And the drinks are served -

It may be a long wait.

Someone remembers to shutter the windows…

 

Cliff Lake 6/29/2024

Copyright © Clifford Lake

Location: Wichita, KS, USA

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