From the edge of the park I see
The railway bridge and the Georgian row.
The rugby posts catch the setting sun
In a wooden frame.
The people walking by
Don’t see me where I stand,
Melting into the worn brick.
That suits me fine.
Sounds fly in from every side,
Even above, from the birds and planes
And swishing leaves paint a wash
Over the harsh clatter.
There used to be swings here
A lifetime and a half ago.
Tarmac and swings and laughter and fear
On the Mystery.
ogginblog 