Poem.
The wind blew hard and it howled and cried
on the night when the Lord Protector died,
and the force of that wind was measured and kept
in the yard where the schoolchild, Newton, leapt.
The world and seasons and people go round,
and we stopped counting time from when old kings were crowned,
it's not where you start, it's the way you begin,
so take up your yardstick, and bow, and join in.
Note: who would believe that I got the information for the first time this week that Isaac Newton, as a child, measured the force of the great gale that blew the night that Cromwell died by leaping into it and measuring the difference the wind made -- but that I got it twice, this week, from two different sources. It was in Tomalin's Peyps biography, and also in
Quicksilver, which I haven't finished. This is kind of a
Quicksilver poem, but not as much as you might think. It just fell out of my head like that.