It wasn’t hard to see the fool on the hill.
The question was why he was deemed a fool?
Many thought his desire to be more than he was assured him of the said status.
Others argued he was always pissing into the wind so what chance did he have.
Either way, he was the source of derision and scorn.
Standing as he did on the hill above the town, on what was known as Lookout Hill, aptly named of course. It was here he could be seen railing against anything he saw as a challenge to his very being.
The wind some days, the sun other days but rarely the rain as it didn’t fall all that often and when it did he was the solitary figure on the hill, arms open to receive every drop that fell his way.
When we were younger, we’d hide near him to listen to his conversations. They were vigorous debates, he would argue back and forward with himself, and we’d be in stitches wondering which of his arguments was going to come out on top.
Now in older age he sits on the hill, someone gave him a seat, he’s deteriorating, his gestures are not as violent as once when we thought it highly possible he’d knock himself out the way he flayed his arms.
He won’t listen a word of advice suggesting he abandon his hilltop vigil, its where he belongs he tells us, it’s on the top of the hill, where silhouetted against the evening sky we see him as our town’s solitary figure.