The Lamplighter

His weather beaten face bent down to his chest, avoiding the biting wind that blew through the air.
The flickering orange flame encased in the iron cylinder dangling in his hand provided hardly any warmth as he trudged down the streets he traveled for as long as he could remember.
A few villagers not yet in their homes bustled down the street, their dark cloaks billowing out behind them.
He lit the end of the long iron pole he held in his right hand and lifted it to the lamp secured on a black pole above his head. He waited patiently till the wick caught the flame and burned brightly. He lowered the pole and leaned his face close to it, catching a flicker of warmth before blowing it out again.
That face had seen it all: life and death, riches and poverty, war and peace, love and hatred. Each care and sorrow drew another line across the man's face.
Each night as darkness sealed the town he came out and walked down the streets, job in hand.
That lantern and pole lit the way for many men and boys hurrying home, closing shops, finishing another day's work as an apprentice.
The aged man was a known sight, most people hardly gave him a glance, but without him the streets would be dark and the way would be lost.
The pole was lifted to the sky again, brightening a portion of it before the insides of the lantern burst with light and the small flame was lowered and snuffed out.
He moved slowly down the cobblestone street, wet with a light drizzle that was falling from the sky, lessening the sting of the sharp November wind. He stopped under one of corner lanterns and raised the pole in time for the sting of the wind to blow it out. Patiently, he re-lit it and sent the corner flooding with light.
His frame bent from eighty years of life un-locked the door to his empty house. He tucked away the pole and set the lantern on the table where they would rest till the sun peeked over the roof tops and it was time to turn the lamps out.