Tuesday, February 2, 2010

The Preacher

This morning I thought of Wordsworth poem, "The Leech Gatherer," when I saw the man I call the Preacher.

As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead . . .

In past years I've heard him preach in an incomprehensible language as he held a bible. He doesn't preach now. He sits or lies on the grass near the beach on Ocean Drive. His dreadlocks have broken down into a thick mat; he dozes. Even when he's awake he seems to doze. He speaks to no one. How he keeps alive I don't know, though one day I saw him eating.

The pigeons treat him as if he were a rock or a tree. He's their perch.

My mother's brother and sister died in a mental hospital, where they had lived for many years. At least the Preacher is outside. The weather is beautiful this morning.


  1. Evidence here of the tenderness of animals, Mim. They seem to know when we need company and when we need to be left alone? Seems to me this lonesome Preacher is less so when the pigeons alight.

    L, C

  2. Now that you say it, Claire, I am willing to believe that the pigeon was treading very lightly.

  3. A deep bow in respect of your photography and choice of text. Chapeau !

    And allow me as well to welcome you aboard. Please have a wonderful Wednesday.

  4. I appreciate your openmindness, you are not afraid of "others"
    hope I said that right..
    all the best smilla

  5. You, did Smilla, just right. With people like the Preacher I am more in awe than afraid.