It came on an evening cool and simple ,
When the light in the horizon was still and silver.
The wind was flitting with a cloudy dimple
And evening meal scents made the dogs all whimper.
And fences leaned in easy talk,
their shadows long and thin,
While crickets tuned their evening strings
and dusk came drifting in.
The hills wore shawls of lilac smoke,
the paddocks sighed at rest,
A lantern winked from down the lane
like one small amber guest.
No thunder pressed against the sky,
no ledger scraped its quill,
Just spoons against enamel bowls
and quiet made to fill.
The magpies folded up their songs
and tucked them under wing,
The day unpinned its golden badge
and set aside its sting.
I stood beside the weathered gate
where wire met splintered post,
And watched the silver gather slow
along the western coast.
Then from the track beyond the bend
there rose a drifting glow,
Not lantern-light nor motor's eye
nor moon beginning low.
It moved as though it knew the way,
yet touched no dust nor stone,
A breath of brightness, calm and pale,
advancing all alone.
The dogs fell still. The whimper ceased.
The wind forgot to roam.
And something in the cooling air
felt very much like home.
And I seeing it arriving
and expecting its contriving,
Opened my front door wide
And waiting there, stepped aside.
It crossed the threshold without weight,
no creak of hinge nor sigh,
Yet every nail within the frame
stood straighter as it passed by.
The silver gathered into shape,
not man, nor beast, nor flame,
But something stitched of memory
that somehow knew my name.
It paused beside the mantle shelf
where dust lay soft and deep,
And brushed a finger through the grains
as one might stir from sleep.
The dogs outside gave single barks
then lowered to the floor,
Not cowed by threat or shadow cast,
but greeting something more.
The kitchen clock resumed its tick,
not hurried, not delayed,
As though it had been waiting long
for this unspoken trade.
I closed the door and turned to welcome
This strange guest from another world
With a gesture and and a sigh
At the table where a ready book unfurled.
It settled opposite me in the wooden chair,
though wood made no complaint,
And silver thinned along its edge
like breath upon a saint.
The book upon the table lay
with pages softly spread,
Its margins held a patient hush,
its spine in twilight fed.
No title marked its weathered face,
no author claimed its thread,
Yet ink shimmered into being
wherever its presence bled.
A line appeared beneath my gaze
in script both fine and slow:
"You left the door unlatched once more.
What is it you would know?"
The dogs outside resumed their chew,
the pans gave gentle clink,
As though the world refused to pry
into what I might think.
"I called," I said, though voice felt small
within that silver room,
"Not out of fear or brokenness,
nor out of nameless gloom.
But for the quiet after noise,
for truth without display,
For something that would sit with me
when daylight slips away."
The figure did not nod nor move,
yet warmth unspooled between
The hearthstone and the window glass
and all that lay unseen.
The book replied without a hand,
fresh sentences took shape:
"Accepted. In residence thus shall be,
until hairs grow grey on your nape."
The silver guest grew faint and fine,
a thinning lunar seam,
Not vanishing in fright or haste
but folding like a dream.
Before it dimmed entirely,
one final phrase was shown:
"You feed what you invite inside.
Take care what you call home."
And when the last soft glimmer slipped
beyond the evening's seam,
The kitchen clock kept steady time,
the world remained serene.
From the stove I filled a bowl
And placed it by the book.
A cup of tea I presented
But didn't know if in these things
my guest would look.
The steam rose like quiet smoke,
curling toward the open page,
And in the bowl the broth shivered
as if tasting every word I'd wage.
I stepped back, unsure,
yet felt a weight of presence near,
A hush that draped the room
like velvet, soft and clear.
The tea cup trembled gently,
though no hand stirred within,
And from the margins of the book
a faint aroma slipped akin to wind.
Lines began to curl and writhe,
ink moving, slow and sure:
"Gratitude is measured not in lips,
but in offerings pure."
I waited. Time ticked softly,
the clock a metronome of calm,
Outside the night draped stars and leaves
as though cradling an unseen palm.
The bowl seemed warmer now,
the cup inclined toward the page,
And I understood, though silently,
that this was the guest's stage.
No form to greet, no eyes to meet,
yet company filled the air,
A presence built not of flesh,
but of patience, care, and dare.
I settled in my chair beside the table,
watching shadows fold and bend,
And felt the strange, quiet certainty
that some things arrive to stay, not end.
Then, in the whisper of the book,
a final sentence came:
"Feed me with your calm and time.
I am content with this simple rhyme."