Spectre with a Hood

   Spectre with a Hood
   
   Most days I see him, the spectre with a hood.
   Head and rounded shoulders bent forward he walks,
   No, trudges the country road I always use
   On my frequent forays into the town.
   
   Clad in faded camouflage gear he carries
   In one hand a plastic supermarket bag
   While his shoulders tote a flaccid rucksack.
   He is looking neither forward nor sideways,
   But always downwards, he is oblivious
   To the white cow parsley in the verges,
   To the late blackthorn and the may blossom
   Emerging from which a startled blackbird,
   Cackling her alarm call, darts across his face.
   
   Such strange behaviour, I say to my friends
   Who reply ‘He’s off for his free methadone’,
   Dismissive as if this answer explains all.
   I wonder what lost chances lie in his wake,
   What bitter wind blew dust into his eyes
   Or what errant gene it was that engendered
   This fellow human being’s path of sorrow.
   
   It’s just a platitude for sure I know
   When I say ‘there but for God’s grace I go’.


This poem was prompted by seeing the man with the hood and also by Millet's painting -Man with a Hoe.