Migration
by Kay Robertson

Old man’s pleasures: a warm stove,
hot tea, a pipe; despite my quilted robe,
I shiver. High overhead, migrating geese
mutter as they fly south over snowy fields

My grandsons run red-cheeked in biting cold,
pause to watch the feathered formation,
laugh as they flap arms in imitation.

When the boys come in, I tell them my dream:
I flew with the geese over the house, saw them playing below.
They giggle to think of Grandfather in flight.
Next winter, boys will look up at out-bound birds,
remember me.

A semi-retired bookkeeper, Kay Robertson was inspired to write poetry after attending a writers’ workshop on the spectacular Oregon coast. As a member of the on-line Writer’s Village University Poetry Workshop, she has received much appreciated critique and encouragement. Her work appears in Loch Raven Review, Pirene’s Fountain Japan Anthology, and Soundings Review. Ms. Robertson lives near Puget Sound in Washington State.

Advertisements