The Man on the Road

A man walked home by a moonless mile,
Where the road lay thin and old.
No wind spoke there, no owl cried out,
And the dark was deep and cold.

He heard a step beside his own,
Soft boots upon the stone,
And found a man of common face
Walking there alone.

“Good evening,” said the stranger mild,
“Do you know how far it goes?”
The traveler nodded, answered plain,
And spoke of familiar roads.

They walked a while in borrowed peace,
Two shadows side by side,
Till the stranger smiled and gently said,
“Home’s a door few reach alive.”

The man then saw the eyes were wrong,
Too patient, dark, and wide,
And the road behind them bent and curled
Where no road ought to lie.

The smile grew sharp, the face grew thin,
The voice like earth below,
“I walk with those who walk too long
And welcome who say hello.”

The man ran hard, the night tore past,
His breath a burning flame,
And dawn found him at his own door
Still whispering God’s name.

And travelers say, when roads grow quiet
And strangers walk too near,
The devil wears an ordinary face
And waits for friendly ears.