He was a small man, belted gabardine raincoat
and thirteen languages tucked around his person.
A fine hand disciplined: copper plate, italic,
sharp steel nib, dipped in iron blue ink,
smooth, white paper that crackled when folded.
Even in an unknown tongue it could be enjoyed
each word soaking in to the hand that stroked it.

One grey day I looked for Silas Jones
but all I found was a mist of languages
drifting in the Welsh air.

© Anthony Fisher June 2009

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