Sitting on a bench
In Washington Park beneath old oaks
Who bow to me in supplication
As school children giggle
And tourists listen to droning tour guides.
The light breeze whispers
Memories of Manassas, Seven Pines and Sharpsburg.
Henry Timrod beckons to me -
This son of the Old South-
In words of old moldy books
That speak of what was, yet is no more.
Who recalls his words today ?
The birds and stone monuments
Acknowledge the passing years -
Years that flow like molasses
Yet leave a bittersweet taste.
Sitting on a bench
In Washington Park beneath old oaks.
very beutiful..I like it
Posted by: Patricija | May 11, 2008 at 03:36 AM
What great imagery you presented to us in this one Paul. Well done!
Posted by: Janice Thomson | May 11, 2008 at 02:22 PM
I'm not one for poetry, for the most part, but this one is amazing. Such vivid imagery. Thanks for sharing it.
cjh
Posted by: CJHill | May 12, 2008 at 02:46 PM