The hermit kneels inside his cell and prays.
Here two roads meet: and at their crossing stands
a sacred guard for all the kingdom’s ways.

This cell, four paces square, is all his lands;
four windows glimpse the freedom of the sky;
four prisoning doors, he closed with his own hands.

For water and for food he must rely
on charity from those who walk the road.
In advent of his blessing, they supply

not only those few alms that he is owed,
but conversation, company, and news
of incidents beyond his small abode.

For moments, minutes, hours they amuse
the ancient hermit. Then away they trail,
returning to the world that he eschews.

To guardian the roads: so goes his tale,
and few there are who ever comprehend
how his unmoving presence can avail

against all storms and perils that would rend
the kingdom into many scattered parts.
But in his sacred solitude thus penned,

the hermit knows his sacrifice imparts
protection, love, a sheltering, gentle spell
that far surpasses all the warlike arts.

Until one quiet night an unseen bell
rings out, and north or west a door swings wide,
as if from out this humble citadel

the hermit, bent-backed, tottering, might stride.
His end is near; he rises up to wait
and see who from the chosen way will ride.

A traveller, fated, finds the hermit’s gate
has loosed its hold. His own road brings him here;
he kneels to let the hermit consecrate

him with a touch. Then without any tear,
the hermit breathes his last. One final act:
within the ground the traveller lays his peer,

and under open sky and earth compact
the newcomer the holy body sets.
He lays one hand upon the old and cracked

wood of the door, and leaving his regrets
outside, he closes it. And there he stays—
whoever he once was, the world forgets.

The hermit kneels inside his cell and prays,
a sacred guard for all the kingdom’s ways.

© 2025 Marie Brennan