The old bench was there,

A plastic bag ballooned between the slats.

‘Alex’ gouged into the wood

Like angry teeth marks.

A tremor of voices around me.

Dead leaves panicked and furled ,

A cold wind plaintively

Orchestrating

Some strange ghost dance ceremony.

 

I looked east, the City swam in an eye blink,

My mind rocked by the breeze,

As people queued for a turn on the ice rink.

There was laughter in the frozen air

And I sank further into a peculiar ease;

I forgot what it was that brought me here.

I heard the scratch of a wayward skate,

I heard a body smack hard into the gate.

I heard glass break.

 

Behind me, low, the gleam of

A pale sun dropping west,

Off to rouse and wake others.

How many have sat before me?

What became of ‘Alex’?

Does he still leave his mark?

I barely turn to face the wind,

Waiting for falling leaves

To rustle up a dream.

Bert Winters

Filed under: Out of my window