His wrinkles went somehow deeper than those of a national will do.
And his eyes were somehow darker - not without a brightness in them - intelligence behind a film, foreign repose.
I saw from the hood on his red coat that he was passing through the land not that the coat was novel or strange his hood was tighter, more practically donned.
His whiskers were somehow thicker scratching the surface of the Great Land a beard from three days’ unshaven growth the stubble, wisdom of an Englishman.
Far different than I, not better, but old emotions just a hair deeper hidden than mine were: shivering in the cold.
I knew from his voice, his language: mine was his, mine the younger.
A shaman with a home on the Eire though not from that verdant spot souls are all equal, nation matters not.
An infusion of Alastair’s yarrow root diluted in cold, sprayed sea water coaxed home to the waves the sunlight our trust and a handshake.