Its 10am, clear blue skies over head.
A young child is being led by its mother.
The bench’s rustic boards are transformed.
‘Ye best walk the plank mama’.
He’s a little boy, a son, a captain of a ship.
The mother stays close, but indulges in his fantasy.
Men fall overboard,
Others survive.
A swan in the distance captures his attention.
They’re off again.
Sunlight seeps into every groove.
The bench feels pride.
***
12pm creeps up, with the world passing by.
Two teenagers flock to their favourite spot.
The trees frame it perfectly,
Their secret little place.
The bench just sits there and accepts it.
‘Janine and Roger forever and ever.’
His pocket knife sealing their love,
For always,
For eternity.
They run off hand in hand,
Afternoon lessons await them.
The passing wind gently touches each crack, each indentation.
The bench feels happiness.
***
4pm, a women sits crying.
No one can see her,
There isn’t anyone around.
The bench’s wrought iron arms comfort the best they know how.
She rests a hand upon one,
As if she knows.
Her other hand is wrapped around a book.
‘Why did she die?’
The woman pleads, asks herself.
A glance at her watch changes everything.
The tears stop, her face is wiped, life must go on.
She leaves the book on the bench and heads for home.
The temperature is dropping, ice will surely come.
The bench feels sorrow.
***
10pm and the day is almost over.
All life has vanished.
Bench sits in a pool of silver moonlight,
Waiting patiently.
A rustle of bushes, an old man emerges.
He is sad and tired, cold sweeps through his body.
Bench tries it’s best to warm up.
A newspaper unfolds.
He snuggles in for the night.
There’s a bottle of gin in one hand, a picture of his sweetheart in the other.
‘I’ll be with you soon my love.’
All wind has ceased to a lullaby state.
The bench feels sympathy.
The bench, above all else, is a protector…
Poet's Corner 