Haverford

[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...]