It’s Just The Same Here

She manned a booth at the City gates.
One could have said she ‘womaned’
it and been just as right. She was very,
very ancient, not an awesomely handsome
sight but she’d weathered well into her
eighties. At her site she dispensed advice,
directions to places to see in the City and
wisdom, if asked politely, for free.

A traveller from afar came cautiously
and asked, his eyes never ceasing to dart,
of the nature of townspeople living there.
What are the people like where you come
from, enquired she. He nervously replied,
they lie, they cheat, and they blaspheme.
An ugly scene. I lived in fear. She shook her
head in sympathy. It’s just the same here.

A foreign man passing near asked again.
She wrinkled up her brows and sought advice
on how he found inhabitants to be at his home
town. They’re bright, they laugh, and they’re
full of cheer, its fun to be living there, he said,
his sparkling smile affirmed his claim. She wore
a grin and said I’m sure you‘ll find the people
here are very much the same.

A younger woman listened to her replies and
said you’re wise in what you say. You imply
we find in life what we are primed to see, that
our disposition makes friends as easily as it
disavows friendships. What do you mean, the
old woman cried, her brows drawn in a quizzical
frown. Well, the younger replied cautiously, how
do YOU find our townspeople to be?
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell