[Another 10 minute poem written in Zurich. This one after a short nap and quick meal (also directly on the computer).]
Here I sit at the edge of Haverford
Watching the younger scuttle by
They brush past, they shrink on.
A wide gale of laughter,
My soft whimper of woe
Some boisterous, others unheard.
A hand whisks above the golden grain
Feeling wisps down below,
A tickling tendril totters up
Gushing giggles guffaw out.
The soil takes me in from the toes
I battle and win, but who’s to show?
They plunge down with sudden force,
The stabbing frost grasps me, clenched.
Such a feeling I have often known
Since the days of graying cold.
Now I court chirping birds
No longer being the one in Haverford.
[I came up with this while reading Beowulf. Go figure...]