The Old Couple

The goose noticed them first, the travelers,

strangers most likely, for they had passed the town

and it was close to evening.

I shaded my eyes while the goose continued

a garrulous hissing and the old man

put down his hoe and stood beside me watching.

We waited still as two old trees. The strangers

took their time coming up hill, where the stones

still held the day's heat, let it out warmly,

the tall one pushing hard against his staff,

the other, smaller, in a battered cloak

was light of foot and fairly danced beside him.

The gods have told us to entertain strangers

lest we turn a god from the door,

but two men less like gods I have not seen.

The goose Miranda, always a judge of character,

made for them as they came, and the small one

kicked her away with his foot roughly.

I will remember always the scowling face

ducking under the lintel, the slow stride

that took up half the room

the big man, tall as an oak, his staff

more like a club. His black beard shone.

He looked younger here than he seemed in the distance.

Robbers or just tired travelers, I knew

we must welcome them. I shook a cloth

out over the wicker couch. The goose kept hissing

and a wind outside fussed in the oleanders.

I blew on the cool ashes of the fire

bringing up sparks, threw in leaves and branches.

The husband brought them water to wash in

and went outside for greens-spinach and turniptops

and early mustard. The kettle boiling

I added the greens and a big piece of bacon

from the flitch in the chimney. I wiped the old table

with mint and rosemary. The eggs cooked in the ashes.

The bench covered with cloth and the table

set with radishes, goat cheese, eggs, pickled berries,

olives from the tree in the dooryard

and the hot stew of herbs. But the strangers

seemed hungry enough for a roast ox

or a spring lamb from the neighbor's pasture.

To the gods, said the old man, and he

poured wine into the clay cups-wine

from our own 'vines, not rare, but pleasant enough.

The dark traveler smiled, though slightly, like the sun-

light after thunder. The fair one seemed hiding a secret

about to fly from his mocking lips.

He had traveled far, that one, had seen the world

even the palaces of Thessaly and Ithaca

where the sun sinks, and the island of Crete

and farther south even, the land of the Nile

where the crocodiles live, and Rhodes

and the rocky temples of Attica.

The wine tasted better than usual. The dark beard smiled

though wily as ever. Twice the old man rose

to fill the pitcher, but it stayed full enough.

Even the apples and honey that finished the meal

tasted different from every day-and better.

Meanwhile the tattered cape was growing brighter

seemingly newer and there were the sparks

one sees in dry weather when a cloth is shaken.

I noticed the bearded one looked taller

as he sat on the bench, his head almost touching the

thatch.

Wine does things sometimes, even a drink or two.

It was impossible. The wine bowl kept brimming

no matter how much we drank. The two growing taller

and beginning to shine. These are gods

whispered the old man suddenly, we must sacrifice.

The goose must be killed before them.

But the silly goose had no mind for that.

We couldn't catch her. She settled next to the strangers.

Let her go, they said. We can do better.

You know the rest, the flood that killed the villagers,

the cottage changed to a temple and we its guardians,

and the goose getting fat on the sacred grain.

But I miss the old ways. We were used to the cottage,

the walls and roof close around us. These high columns

and the gold roof are all right for gods,

we were content where we were. There was plenty

for an old couple wrinkled as tree bark, hands spotted

and gnarled,

and the vines of the good earth already reaching up for us.