Chipped benches marred by life
lures them, and they sit
like visitors adding their heavy
tread of woes and incidences.
Half thoughts and fragments
sat upon and never really said
become etched, efficiently
steeped and documented in the lost
memories of weakened wood
and wrought iron, in the grubbiness
of ice creams and crying toddlers
and the weary bones of a summer day
stroll, past the two hands holding
yet still apart and past all the barriers
of frequent inheritors, those with the two
tired and sorry hearts.
Frolics from behind in watchful
tall grass propel the breeze –
hands cover voices to muffle the minds
that barely caress
when curious eyes with stinted
conversation finds those
in another life who are teasing
and loving, caressing and at play
with their own boundless energy.
Rigid tones of harsh breathing
won’t oil the swings –
creaking limbs, and disjointed circles
means the roundabout won’t sing
Searching eyes find a middle ground
in a smile broadened by a sight,
by a glimmer of what was taken
one summer –
a night in the park when it rained,
and dreams were spilled over
onto the ground, where ice cream
and hopes lay thick like rainbow syrup.
I am here. Are you in there somewhere
buying ice cream –
bringing frozen flowers
to the bandstand’s doleful stare?
Nine o’clock gates open gladly –
the park’s grand design – and slowly
old habits and misunderstanding
dwindles into pockets of time.
He stops to pluck a flower, heavy still
with rain, she takes it and replaces
it with her hand once again.