AT HIS HOUSE

I visited the Poet's house. At the living room they had a picture of him wearing glasses hanging on the wall, wide eyed lurking from behind the transparent lenses. A man whom so ever he is; is strong in his own house but here was no man only a picture locked inside a frame hanging on the wall. His lovely wife greeted me warmly with a sturdy arm. As if wanting to tell me some secret,

she leaned forward and then back perhaps whatever she wanted to say ought not to be said to a child.

Her son followed behind her closely confirming his mother's gratitude he gave me a similar hand shake nothing like his mother’s but firm enough that I got the message; that here was a strong family.

I waited to see the Poet and to feel the firmness of his hand shake but there was no Poet to be had.Only this picture of him hanging on the wall accentuated by his watchful eyes. Eyes that see nothing today but everything that was there before. I wondered in my mind where the Poet was. Where the man responsible for this lovely family could have gone?

He was not such a man to forget his family and leave it at the mercy of a picture's protection. So many questions flooded my mind. Was he busy writing or editing something in the study. Had he gone to work for the day perhaps to a recital some function he was asked to come to.

I searched for an answer on their faces but none was revealed nothing for his and their sake was mentioned, nothing was said not even in passing. So we ran outside the two of us to play to be kids again. I was later to find out that the Poet like his picture had been imprisoned for writing insightful poetry