The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor. And the highwayman came riding —riding — riding — The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door. (Alfred Noyes)
I remember being captured by this poem out of my mother’s well-worn One Hundred and One Famous Poems, and memorized it before I was even old enough to know what a ‘moor’ was. The refrain still runs through my mind sometimes, and I still picture the wild ride, the highwayman’s black cape flying behind him like a dark wing.
Who knows what it might have meant to a nine or ten year old, but I know what it means to me now. What are those unknown things — adventures, relationships, new beginnings — that still come “riding up to our door” today? And what will stir us out of our sometimes (okay, in my case “frequent”) apathy and sloth and maybe fear to actually answer the door, and open ourselves to possibility . . .
Behold, I stand at the door and knock. What a provocative statement.