Public open spaces

November 10, 2017

When the light comes 

with a winter morning,

when even the evergreens hold their breath,

and the sugar kicks wait

while the young are sleeping,

    that light,

        pouring in,

in stop motion ice melting,

lowering the shadows into the earth,

down, into kingdoms of the borders, 

line, mass and colour, trapped in lead.

Unhiding wrappers, striped and bleached

besides the rods of iron roses,

are the dying frescos of a season dare,

or a flattened coke can wreath, 

laid at the floor of the oak’s grey bough,

is an act of remembrance to young bodies

of summer,

fallen on the lawn’s cool grasses. 

Tarmac rivers along,

confuse the swans now and then,

and the only way the memorial stones will move anymore

is when the glaciers return. 

There, on the park bench uprights,

nailed brass plaques 

flicker to life the dead names of loved ones,

who found escape in this view.

Who sat, and watched over their healing land.

Or maybe it was the sun bathed limbs in June.


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