They always start with quick and eager strides
--Even the one on crutches--up the hill.
The long-legged and the young soon reach the bend,
Then reappear above the heads of slower
Earnest pilgrims puffing up the slope.
Those at the parapet stand, statuesque,
Their tiny silhouettes nicking the sky.
See, some now descend the winding trail--
The young, the tall step out, no longer black
And dwarfed against the vast and cloudless light,
Their blouses khaki, red, and white. In single
File, like beads on a string we cannot see,
They reach the stairway to the parking lot,
Then break apart toward different destinations.
Scattered now, does each still hoard some sense
Of borrowed grace from a purpose briefly snatched
And shared beneath the sky, whatever it was?
Nice poem with superb imagery, Thanks for sharing Those at the parapet stand, statuesque, Their tiny silhouettes nicking the sky.
You snatched a sense of grace in your poem, Daniel. Your eye is a cine camera, with brain and heart embedded!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Those last four lines are very expressive of the durability of glorious moments- - they do last but at such a tempered level, not that statuesque high level but maybe that is why we keep searching for another glorious moment