The Solitary Reaper Poem by Gert Strydom

I behold him single,
walking on the street
and his face is covered
by the long black cloak
that the evening wind
bristles against.

From a distance he looks
like a ancient priest,
or somebody trying to
get the better
of the foggy raining weather.

Something sinister is in his step
and I have seen him before
and the knowledge of it,
brings the hair on my arms to life.

I greet him like a old friend
and he smiles at me
like regular passers on the street do
and his voice is part of the wind:
“I am not coming for you, yet.”

The moonlight glitters yellow
in a crescent shape in the sky
and falls on the sickle in his hand
and death walks by,
to take away the very pulse of life
somewhere nearby
and he’s in a hurry to be in time
before destiny’s clockwork reach its mark.

Down the street
I hear a young man sobbing
in a old white house
where all the lights
are burning a soft yellow
and just for a moment,
the solitary reaper hesitates
before unnoticed
he walks through the door.