Miss his comforting solidity, br The slant of his shoulders - br Even his cardinal’s hat: br Its corners so riveted to his cranium br They had squared off his head br And become as much a part of him br As the gnarled hands permanently jammed inside his bark-jacket pockets. br There had been a time br I could catch an occasional glimpse of him from afar, br Ministering stillness and silence to the swaying flock thronging at his feet br Like a rock, so rooted with passion for its place in the world, it would never roll. br But that was well before he had become obscured br By tall walls of green youth br Reaching for the ripe skies of adulthood. br br He’ll be back though – he always is: br For his season’s disciples will bow before the blade, br Or fade before the Fall: - br It’s the way of it. br br I’ll be waiting. br br Then will he preach to a broader church br Drawn from the soils beneath his soles br And souls on the road to wherever they are bound, br Who, like me, br May well wonder, br Might just see br The strange yet welcome spirit br That is he.