Sunday, July 31, 2005
Poem
On the Esplanade
They were a small part
contained in my view
or the river,
There were two men
old and sagely
quiet but speaking between themselves.
The one's hair,
long and wispy
flowed like the water
to which he pointed
with crooked finger.
His hand trembled,
perhaps as his voice.
'Hands were his tools,
had probably built
the grand sturdy house
in which he lived'
thought I.
The other, as gentle
as the former, his friend,
seemed equally dressed
in the wisdom of age.
His correct clothing
rebuffed the wind
and kept him comfortable
and perfect in weather.
They left nothing behind
when they left their bench
but my heart lept to witness
their strong gamely stride.
'Once collected
to your warm
friendly homes,
Dream of lost youth
now present,
thought I.
On the Esplanade
They were a small part
contained in my view
or the river,
There were two men
old and sagely
quiet but speaking between themselves.
The one's hair,
long and wispy
flowed like the water
to which he pointed
with crooked finger.
His hand trembled,
perhaps as his voice.
'Hands were his tools,
had probably built
the grand sturdy house
in which he lived'
thought I.
The other, as gentle
as the former, his friend,
seemed equally dressed
in the wisdom of age.
His correct clothing
rebuffed the wind
and kept him comfortable
and perfect in weather.
They left nothing behind
when they left their bench
but my heart lept to witness
their strong gamely stride.
'Once collected
to your warm
friendly homes,
Dream of lost youth
now present,
thought I.
