The Stroll

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The small one checks the heavy gray head,
The slow feet playing follow-the-leader;
The doubtful rhythm and tremulous hands.
Wise, bleary eyes gaze into fresh,
Observing dancing mischief
And sympathy lurking there.
Twice removed by generations,
The older head measures
The eager young body
And untilled mind hungry
For the seed of knowledge;
Intrigued by the frog's croak,
The stone of quartz, the thrush's song.
So they meander along;
The boy resting trusting fingers
In the oldster's veined, weary hand,
Finding comfort in security;
The other admiring youth
That once was his.