I Gave Him My Cloak
I Gave Him My Cloak
He did not ask.
The wind cut through his steps
as he walked from the edge of the sea.
His skin was pale
and peeling.
His eyes did not settle on anything
for long.
He did not look like a prophet.
He looked like a man
who had been forgotten
by both land and water.
I had nothing to offer
but a threadbare cloak
smelling of fire
and thyme.
I held it out.
He did not speak.
He took it.
His fingers shook
as he pulled it around his shoulders.
He walked on,
not slower,
not faster.
The sand carried his footprints
until the tide came in.
I did not follow.
I did not call.
I only stood,
watching the sea
draw a new line in the shore.
