Stafford Park

Dahlia’s flood the borders edge
bursting shape into life
confetti colours of fragmented rainbows
their heavy leaf contained only
by the crewcut grass verge of old.

Rain patters a shimmering on the tarmac
snaked path following the autumn fauna
cast aside by the copper riverbank
trickle down to the wrought iron bandstand
where horn and drum once played.

I stop and pause…

Smatters of rain pat my ochre mac
whilst soft pain grimaces upon my face.

I see ghosts here...

an old lady throwing corn to the ducks
a young boy crying next to his buckled bike
as a vagabond coils a bench beneath the shelter;
cold and alone aside the traffics megaphone.

Yet tranquillity rest its heavy burden
lingering like fog over the bowling green
the geese laden pond and the evergreens
and thereon.

You can see it on their wrinkled faces
the folk who no longer work the factories
a certain freedom fits like a comfort blanket
and me - I’m just an infrequent visitor
who everyone smiles at!