Slopes and steps,

About the crows.

Trace footsteps,

Throughout the snow.

Ice and slush,

To slip and slide,

Between the mush,

We gently glide.

Glide.

Glide.

Over the tide.

Up the stony hill to a building so high.

And I say,

Why, why, why do I reside at the bottom.

Pedal, cycle, push til the snow hits autumn.

Spring to Fall, Up and down,

Clickety-clack round the town.

Then I take myself a wonder.

Back to London, break asunder.

No lights, no horns.

Peace.

Of mind.

In summer time.

This Traill I find.

This Traill is mine.

Picturesque

Warm, cozy, a place called home.

We sit on benches made of stone.

People don’t study, but slowly roam.

Around the bush, and into the dome.

And into the mind,

And into no time,

And out of no sight,

No feeling, no rhyme.

Poetic journey, a romantic witness.

Peace circles, songs picnics.

Passer-byers attend at Frosh Week fest.

North, down here tours, offered lest.

Us writers, learning to teach in jest.

Eaton, Gzowski, OC, Champlain: crest.

Trailling off.. forgotten by the rest.

Squeaks and squirrels.

The chipping of beaks.

Sights and pictures.

Images, warm, sod reeks.

Sounds of music.

Taps light upon the cheek.

My quest.

To rest.

I digest.