The Old Man in the Beret

I passed by quickly, but not so quickly as not to discern,

I saw an old man of strength, there was power in his tendons,

He was bronze in color; his shirt was tightly pressed against his torso,

He wore a black beret, it could not have been darker; it sat on his head proudly…

I saw a cane in his left hand; it was for the look; of this I was sure…

I perceived that he was Belgian; Renee Magritte may have painted this man,

I could picture him on the shore of the North Sea, dreaming of navigation,

I could see him in a castle in Brussels; this is where Magritte painted him…

He had such a history, a history of love, of family, triumphs for posterity,

Why though did he sit so staunchly? This I could not release from my mind…

I began to ponder where it was that he was perched; then I recalled:

It was on the stump of a tree, a great white oak; he sat upon it impressively.

The stump was so wide; to count the rings would tally centuries…

I could well discern that this proud and handsome man, a true centurion,

Was reveling; he had outlived the oak, thus explaining the notable posture,

If I ever encounter this handsome centurion, I will not disclose this fact:

That great white oak was planted before his great, great grandfather was born…

I will just remember the proud Belgian man, the one that sat upon the stump,

The old man in the beret…

                    Joseph James    

                                 7-25-10       © from the book 'O the Elms ' to be released spring of 2012
                                                                    all rights reserved