Before breath bore names,
the earth turned in the still without question.
Leaves trembled for no reason.
The black birds an swallow had no history.
Light fell on everything equally,
not as grace or punishment.
Time wore no crown yet.
Peace had not been tested.
Then came the man.
Not loud. Not cruel
just there, within the silence.
With eyes that broke surface,
and thoughts sharp as branches.
He touched the fruitless trees.
He stared until meaning formed.
He brought language to leaves.
He brought weight to wind.
The stillness knew it changed.
Now every calm hides tension.
Every breeze masks direction.
Rain lands like small verdicts.
Even stones avoid memory.
Birds scatter from shadow first.
Then ask if it follows.
A figure remains half-glimpsed
man-shaped, not entirely man.
The garden still pretends peace.
But roots twitch underneath boots.
Black soil absorbs too much.
Nothing forgets being watched.
He never speaks aloud now.
He walks behind tall hedges.
He waits where light bends.
Even the dusk leans away.
Something has been broken permanently.
When night arrives too fast,
the sky pretends not knowing.
Stars blink with unsure purpose.
The moon declines all witness.
Somewhere a man is watching.
Somewhere a thought is bleeding.
Knowledge stains without a wound.
And snow will come again
then melt before becoming real.
This is how it happens:
Every cycle loses something small.
The garden returns in pieces.
The birds return, not trusting.
No god opens the gate.
No fire lights the altar.
No hand blesses the silence.
Only the man remains—waiting.
His presence rewrites the rules.
He was not evil arriving.
He was potential remembering itself.
He was question before answer.
He was shadow before object.
Now even spring fears becoming.
Even summer waits for loss.
Each return grows more distant.
Each silence, less complete.
And the rain still falls
without anger, without warmth.
It has learned from man
how to arrive indifferent.
05 August 2025
Where the Knowing Walks
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
