They were sitting
in the little English garden
a host of people
who came for what they loved
poetry by which
God knows what they meant
and certainly you
could tell sitting there they were moved.
I mean a young man
all in black fidgeting stared
into the goldfish
pool and rocked to the rhythmic beat
of some sweet Avon
verses, and then he dared,
when volunteers
were invited, to stand and read:
or rather, since
he wasn’t finished yet,
composing as he
proclaimed. Another shyly
took her place on
the platform, her tongue not wet,
to share some
issues unresolved that she
was sure we needed
to feel deeply. And last
a childlike
presence announced the day had past.
No comments:
Post a Comment