• In a Quadrangle

    Here's a poem by Carl White:

    In the Quadrangle

    The flag waves, pigeons fly,
    People passing by don't see the moment of the stones
    Placed by hands long gone.

    Caressing, my fingers trace textures engraved by time.
    Each movement of the air, each drop of moisture on each pore,
    Have modified the mark of mason cleaving with the grain of stone.

    Since etched by wind and rain,
    Explored by lichen imperceptible
    Movement too slow for human eye and still too fast for stone to know.

    The cries, the shouts that echoed from each wall,
    The tumult of the lists, the music from the horn
    Have marked the surface of the stone.

    What laughter here, what joys upon this lawn,
    What games we played beneath the banners fluttering.

    The stones remember all,

    And if we take our time, then we can read their tale.