An Antique Argument

Two travelers one unhappy night

Met on a moonlit moor

Each warned of a raging storm

Soon upon them to descend

Weary wanderers, both

Strong-willed and well-informed

Advised strongly against

The way the other went

One stocky southbound soul

With reddened cheeks and rugged build

Told of a northern tempest

Of hoarfrost, howling gales

That could freeze even the furnaces

Of the devil’s hateful heart

The other, being northward bound

Stared ahead and only scoffed

For he saw a scene serene

And he asked, somewhat confused,

“Are you terribly turned around?

Yes, yonder comes a blizzard. Yet

Its hate hails from the south.”

They both gave a second glance

At the fury each had fled

And noting nothing changed

In the baleful skies behind their backs

Deemed the other one deranged

So began a bellicose debate

Between twin prides, in time

A chastening chill crawled up the hills

And hid with hopes to mingle

In that malcontented moot

Gorging, growing into

The spectre of a storm, the same

Each feared was not too far

So as they stood there, heated

Frost bit slowly through their boots

First said the northbound stranger,

“See these spectacles here?”

He pointed to a pair

Of loosely fitted lenses,

Damaged, dirty, dangling,

Off his officious head.

“These bifocals once belonged

To a learned enlightened man.

He manufactured marvels.

His vision verily is mine.”

The southward wagged a scarlet finger

And shivering replied,

“They hardly fit your hollow head.

The lenses look like ice,

Like frozen fissures that you’ll find,

Deep down your dimwit’s road.”

He next unfixed

A broken compass from his belt.

He hoisted it up high and claimed

(To a cloaked and clouded moon),

“This was my father’s for a while.

Before, it belonged to his.

Generations have all journeyed

It’s led all to lasting peace.”

The skeptic snorted. Mist

Obscured his spectacles. He said,

“That needle never moves.

As soon shall you it seems.”

They argued antique merits

To prove their paths were best

Then it started, that fateful storm

That both thought was behind.

It shrouded them in shackling sheets

Of blinding sleet and snow.

Forced to find shelter, foes

Make little warmth for wear

While one found refuge below

A lone, snow-burdened bough

The other wandered off

As rime wreathed his brow

The frigid air made want for friends

The frosted ground begged for a fire

But still beneath the bough froze one

The second, shivering, shambled on

And when the storm had gorged and gone,

Two frostbitten folk,

Backs turned but feet apart,

Died in the calm of dawn.