Poem of the Week

Let's go to the park where

the dogs and children

cluster and circle and run

under the sombre old trees - they are

hanging on to their swarthing

leaves - while the young

medallioned trees in the early

sun are dancing

among them.

The knapsacked students too

hurtle, always too late, focused

on there, blindingly

swerving out of the now and

here where children and dogs

and a few rather shabby, slow

old ones, straying, move

across the owners, standing with

loose leashes, intent on "their day."

The benched but sleepless

mothers and nannies, watching,

are quieted here, warmed and fed

by the good old trees and

the shining little ones.