Friday, November 22, 2019
Icy rain-slicked grass made running a chore.
November clouds scudded everywhere,
And grey Autumn sky turned playground to moor.
The principal’s call cut through all the row:
His loud voice commanded we come inside!
Of course, we complained -- why must it be now?
But his visage spoke volumes he couldn’t hide.
We saw, one and all, the tears in his eyes.
Our river of silence flowed through the door.
That the TV was on was a surprise;
We watched Cronkite cry, and sat on the floor...
A roomful of childhoods were suspended,
The afternoon that Camelot ended.
Some memories are burned, bas-relief, on the walls of my mind.
Posted by Mick at 2:49 PM