The blind man appeared rather slow,
As through his daily tasks did go.
Shuffling tardily, sometimes a stumble,
But his senses keen beneath the scumble.
Bent and weary, warily treading,
Aware of where he needs to be.
Ever walking into darkness,
Choosing steps most carefully.
Obstacles, he steers around them.
Through tangled webs he weaves his way.
Shapes and colours he still remembers,
Through day as night, and night as day.
'Take me home', he told the driver,
As inside the cab he sat.
'Across the bridge, turn right, turn left.
I know exactly where we're at'.
Though God his sight did confiscate.
His other senses still remain,
Heightened now to compensate,
Retentivity, the blind man's gain.
richard harris
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-blind-man-12/
