Sunday, December 06, 2015

Parade, a poem


Outside my window, the nations parade
in martial finery,
to disappear with a fading of drums
and a rustle of pages.

Applaud the polished shields of Rome,
the prancing Arab steeds;
each new spectacle must pass
before the next may march

up the street, around the corner
and away, forgotten.
The street lies long but never empty;
I wait with the crowd.

Stephen Brooke ©2015

Nothing special here, and certainly nothing deep, but I jotted down a few words a while back and eventually had to do something with them. As usual, it is words that get me started, not ideas; trying to write to an idea or concept pretty much always turns out unsatisfactory.

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