July 5th, 2011 at 8:11PM
About a year ago, I had been thinking of writing a poem about boys with sticks as there was a pack of them behind me on the trail at Mendon Ponds.  I could hear them as they beat back the bushes, yelping and running after each other.  I began to think about little boys and sticks and the poem started to write itself as I walked; I may have even scratched out a few lines once I got to the car.  But there the poem was abandoned.  Anyway, a year and all these miles later in Edinburgh, I watched people watching the Queen. I was interested because as an American, the Queen of England means something to me (good and bad) and I watched especially the faces of the older Scots lining the street as she presided over the military ceremony (presenting new colours) to the Royal Regiment.  I watched their faces as the bagpipes played, watched them waiting for the Queen, and watched them as they watched her pass by, wondering what they felt, the men and women in this place which seems so proud and closer than ever to independence.  And then I backed onto the hill and watched a boy in the field, playing with a stick while his parents waited for a final view of the Queen.  And I didn’t feel like writing a poem so much as snapping a photo; which may be what a poem aims to do anyway.  So here finally, is ”Boys with Sticks”—  

About a year ago, I had been thinking of writing a poem about boys with sticks as there was a pack of them behind me on the trail at Mendon Ponds.  I could hear them as they beat back the bushes, yelping and running after each other.  I began to think about little boys and sticks and the poem started to write itself as I walked; I may have even scratched out a few lines once I got to the car.  But there the poem was abandoned.  Anyway, a year and all these miles later in Edinburgh, I watched people watching the Queen. I was interested because as an American, the Queen of England means something to me (good and bad) and I watched especially the faces of the older Scots lining the street as she presided over the military ceremony (presenting new colours) to the Royal Regiment.  I watched their faces as the bagpipes played, watched them waiting for the Queen, and watched them as they watched her pass by, wondering what they felt, the men and women in this place which seems so proud and closer than ever to independence.  And then I backed onto the hill and watched a boy in the field, playing with a stick while his parents waited for a final view of the Queen.  And I didn’t feel like writing a poem so much as snapping a photo; which may be what a poem aims to do anyway.  So here finally, is ”Boys with Sticks”—  

2 notes #scotland#boy#field#holy rood#royal visit