Solstice (Poetry)

This is the time of year when kids are graduating from high school and preparing to launch out into the larger world beyond the nest.  And because of that, many of us get nostalgic for the time in the perhaps distant past when we did the same, and we take a glance back over the meandering road we  have since travelled.  I thought, therefore, that this would be an appropriate time to share the following poem which I wrote a few years ago under that same influence.

                        SOLSTICE

Where has everyone gone,

the afternoon of the day but half spent? 

Only hours ago it seemed we marched together,

in tandem with the drum major

we had appointed head of the column.

We dawdled whenever we broke rank and

chased the birds across the field and

up into the eaves and the ivy on the wall.

Hot on each other’s heels we strode the

mid-morning, whispering naughty secrets

behind the trees as we stopped to catch our breath.  

In the shared confidence of make believe we

saluted one another, as if there were

no other troop and the day would never end.

Late morning brought the crowds swarming

through the backyard and over onto the playground,

mixing up our scents. 

Our affections were scattered, while yet endeared

to the simplicity of play.  Blind drunk we crossed

the silent meridian, eyes squinting under

the noon blaze of the sun.

The glee club, sweet as dewy fragrance

when the morning sun chimed in, turned into

a coarse cheering section, arms flailing,

fists tightened, every chest bloated with pride.

This, long after the whistle had blown and

our teams had dissolved upon one  another

in the hanging cloud of dust.

As my ingenuous turn of mind would have it,

I took my nap about that time.  Somewhere during

that fateful sleep they all wandered off.

If I knew where they were, what would I

hear them say?  Would it be a bellow or a sigh?

What else of them have the hours mellowed

other than their old marching feet?

Is it only in me the child yammers still?

I look across the same stamping field. 

There the attending birds nestle together

in the ancient oak, descendants no doubt of those

I chased into the eaves and the ivy on the wall.  

Only the moment presents itself to them.

It is their quaint but sad fortune to be sealed

into that moment and never have to wonder

where others of their pack have gone.

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com

I welcome feedback.  Direct it to bobracine@verizon.net