Sky, Cloud, You...

I sit on a bench

in the lamp-post park

and make notes 

on the world.

Yellow jacket skaters

baby pram pushers

fence talkers 

and coffee cup whistlers

scoot along the path.

I write it all down:

how the hawthorns 

have almost fallen over,

how the dogs

fly into the open arms

of clouds,

and then I see

the long hair tied back

the gentle face of a lion

the eyes like water.

The women are calling:

Come on! This way! Come on!

But we sit on the bench

you and I 

and talk 

ten years worth of tales.

Old friend,

you stroll like a miracle

out of the shoe lacers 

and the rucksack joggers

out of this green painting

and into the day.