Old Cap

You find him at dusk where the path turns to mould,

A small mushroom fellow, both quiet and old.

Staff in his grip and a face hard to read — 

He might be a guardian… or something you need.

Does he watch the damp edges to keep the dark out? 

Or open a door when the shadows grow stout?

If you shift him at morning, will night bring him back?

And what in the leaf-mould just whispered your track?

He stands in the places the ordinary thins,

Where gardens grow stories and thresholds begin.

No answers he offers, no name that is true —

Just Old Cap, who waits to be noticed by you.