FROM MY WINDOW
An old man leaning on a gate
Over a London mews — to contemplate —
Is it the sky above — the stones below?
Is it remembrance of the years gone by,
Or thinking forward to futurity
That holds him so?
Day after day he stands,
Quietly folded are the quiet hands,
Rarely he speaks.
Hath he so near the hour when Time shall end,
So much to spend?
What is it he seeks?
Whate’er he be,
He is become to me
A form of rest.
I think his heart is tranquil, from it springs
A dreamy watchfulness of tranquil things,
And not unblest.
-Mary Elizabeth Coleridge, 1861-1907
Gladsome Lights 
I love your poetry.
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Beautiful words: they remind me of an old man in our town who visits his horse every single afternoon with his dog. He sometimes sits on the ground and reads; walks around the paddock; or, if the weather is inclement, he sits in his vehicle – always close to his horse.
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I see him.
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