His white snowy hair sparsely covered
his brow within which shined a moonlike glow;
and his sunken, far distant eyes, sparkled
like shards of stardust.
His voice like the revolution of planets,
softly rounded but with urgency.
An astrologer did you say?
Sit down a while he said
tell me when were you born,
be exact.
He looked deeply into the wall
behind my head, then
flicked a few pages of yellowing books,
fell silent, disappearing into night.
Well what do the stars say?
Not much, not much at all, he said,
a journey, a big event, soon,
all veiled in mystery after that,
and then glanced at his sidereal watch.
Is that what you always say? How old are you?
Six he said.
I gave him a “you must be pulling my leg” look,
the sort I had practiced with my son
when he was really six.
Yes six he said, when I was eight
I walked with the stars one night
and I just knew that I was eighty-two
and when I told the grown-ups
they looked at me like that.
Of course in middle age
it made no difference
and now I am six.
I count down to innocence,
you want to count up to death?
I expect that when I am one,
I won’t care for counting anymore.
Anyway I don’t believe in this astrology lark
and I don’t have time for this.
You are right he said.
Staring again at the wall behind my head.
