He gently brushes the sleeve of her jacket,
a modest sign of longheld affections.
Together they toss bread crumbs, white as their hair,
to the ducks that dwell just below.
I wonder, as they watch and abide,
if they sense my own heedful gaze.
The sky is somber, but rain will not come.
The storm will hold back for a while.
A moment longer to linger along the rail,
to breathe and to stand and to be.
Daylight dwindles for the man and his love,
the birds will still be there tomorrow.
He assits her in taking her seat once more,
in the chair which helps and hinders.
The leaves crunch beneath them, their life all but gone,
it is time now to return home.
2 comments:
I like it! You are a poet muy bueno, as they say in Spain. But I suppose that is because you are at Oxford, and everyone there is an extraordinary writer (yes, I'm an american and generalizing when it is completely inappropriate an misrepresenting is what I do). It reminds me of my grandparents, but I'm kind of wondering where there rain and the train fit in. They have the same feel as the rest of the poem, but how do they fit?
PS: Fall is awesome.
Carl
very poetic...no pun intended. i really enjoyed your imagery
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