When I was young and sprightly an old man lived up on the hill above me.

He would labour half way up the ascent and rest on a ledge of ancient concrete.

His tales were of our literary giants , fallen heroes of our national identity.

His own part a footnote to history , no Wikipedia page heralds his artistry.

Now sometimes I find myself labouring half way up that formidable hill.

And resting on that ledge of ancient concrete , the tides turn when one least expects it,

the tide turned and I never expected it.