Trinity College School - Record Yearbook (Port Hope, Ontario Canada)

Page 24 text:

The Pendulum Snow that disappears overnight. Clouds that drift away silent and quick changing darkness into light in brief, timeless seconds. Immobile sheets of ice that become clear, bubbling brooks in short warm hours. Stark and lifeless skeleton trees changed to vibrant, green growth in brief days. All, the suddeness of creation like the swing of a pendulum. Brought from the depths of the earth a sharp steel knife glints evil in the sun as it slices the fragile piece of supporting wire in mid flight. White, virgin snow turns dirty black, trees begin to topple . . . above clouds build up thick, impenetrable, permanent. Crystal clear streams have turned a murky brown. Somewhere a small black sphere falls away from the earth burning like fiery Kohoutek, Forever out of reach. 20

Page 23 text:

. . The room is large and f illed with boys dressed in Sunday best . There seems to be a meeting in pro- gress — they are all seated alert and facing the front. Older boys are patrolling the hall, now and then stopping to take notes. One boy is bobbing a balloon with his nose while another is singing and a group of five are doing push-ups. The third one over in the push-up line has a dejected look on his face . . . . . . Five boys stand at attention next to the wall It is dark. The door of the room is ajar as a tousle headed, pvjama-clad eighteen year old steps for- ward to review his ranks. His pyjama shirt falls open as he leans to tighten the tie of one familiar faced fifteen year old, who wears a look of dejec- tion . . . . . No one is about except a young lad hard at work. He is in the same dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn. Although the sheets and blankets are neatly folded, the style of the bed he is making is not the conventional hospital corner . The bed on his left is already neatly made . . . . . There is a brand new look on the formerly dis- mal face — a look of impish glee with the hint of a victorious grin, as he returns to bed as the early morning sky begins to brighten. 19

Page 25 text:

Confrontation I move . . With a powerful senfse of wild, perpetual action. He moves . . . With that quiet air of inimitable, studied apathy. I grasp at life. Wrestle with it. Fight and curse it He samples life, Curious and tentative, Caressing it. I am enslaved. To reasoned, rational, unfeeling thought. At times, almost pedantic. He is ruled, By self-pleasing emotion. Yet with a plaintive touch of whimsey. I am forced To answer only to myself; — But I am so demanding. He is committed To that all-ton perfect image of his brother, And to the ghosts of countless unseen generations. And though we be but yards apart. Ten thousand miles, a thousand years. Rear up to form a wall around our minds . . . We cannot communicate. For the pressures of my tinker-toy society have chained my mouth. For the uncertainty of his youthful simplicity twists his tongue. Who is winning? . . . Lost amid my scheming and my projects. Lost amid his poems and his dreams. We are both like children scrawling patterns in the sand. 21