--a wrote:
Murder?
No, he was old. Us old guys just die for no apparent reason.
Stranger On The Train
Sort:
Thanks, streetfighter. Yes, its mine - all the stuff on my page is mine - thirty odd pieces - poetry, prose and puzzles - feel free to browse.
Stranger On The Train
As I made my way to London
From Glasgow fair aboard a train,
An old man asked “Beg your pardon,
May I sit as you play your game?”
Said I “Of course, be my guest;
I'm just reliving glories past.”
He took a seat at this behest
And watched my analytic tasks.
So silent sat, such stark stillness,
I quite forgot his presence there;
That when he spoke next, I confess
I nearly jumped out of my chair.
“You moved the rook there, bringing threat,
But was it not better to wait?
A little move along instead
And wasn't that three more till mate?”
I nearly called him fool and more;
(I'd played this through on many nights)
What chance was there I'd missed before
So often what he'd seen first sight?
But as I looked upon his face,
I saw a fleeting, nervous smile;
Choking down scorn I had embraced,
I saw he was right all the while!
With new respect I viewed the man,
Whose image changed before my eyes
From sad figure felled by Time's hand
To elder sage, clever and wise.
I could not speak, could only bow
My head to acknowledge his mind;
What good fortune brought me here now,
That such a gifted soul I'd find?
I asked him then if he would give
Pleasure and honour of a game.
His eyes lit up and start we did;
His eagerness made me feel shame:
Had I suggested play from first!
Who knows what wonders I had missed.
He'd woke in me chess-player's thirst,
What better time could I have wished?
We savoured first a Spanish dance,
With intricate manoeuvring;
As pieces flicked forth from his hands
I could not help my wondering:
“Pray tell, dear sir, what is your name?”
He answered “Joseph Bramkovich.”
“Where did you learn this precious game?”
“When but a boy in home Munich.”
He won that game with style and flair
And offered me a rematch then.
I gladly took proposal there,
For chance like this won't come again.
A Dragon now and with his touch
The beast seemed to have come awake;
I charged and fought like George but such
A foe was more than I could take.
“Please, one more game!” I begged of him,
Herr Bramkovich nodded assent.
He played some moves then on a whim
He seemed to go still and silent.
What subtle ploys did he weigh up?
What nuances went through his brain?
But slow he toppled, spilling cups,
A cold dead stranger on the train.