The Possession of Eddie Walker

There's a man that lives at the end of our street whom no-one knows or dares to meet.

He wields a crutch to help move his feet. He takes walks late at night while our neighbours sleep.

A flat peak cap hides his face from the dark. A red beard pokes out from beneath; in an arc.

The heels of his shoes scar the pavement a mark. The dogs on his route hear him coming and bark.



Those of us up to watch his endless routine begin to imagine the things that he's seen.

When we retire ourselves and settle to dream is it through his eyes still open we study the scene?

Does he guard our nightmares or suffer their show? Is his job to recall them so others shall know?

Or is the man that travels the pavements below ourselves in the mirror of our window?