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,
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
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.