The Dust Gatherer

Somebodies gathering dust, in the blue-grey twilight; I see him, but not his hidden face; he stoops down, like a father with his child, but he has no busy rattle, but a dust-pan and a brush, for scooping up the livid, fiery dust yes, I’ve seen him here before, but more often, in parks with swings and busy market floors yet, today is not the same; no, no it’s not the same at all; and when I ask him, why? he slowly turned around and said, ” I’ve come to gather you,”