The old bench was there,
A plastic bag ballooned between the slats.
â€˜Alexâ€™ gouged into the wood
Like angry teeth marks.
A tremor of voices around me.
Dead leaves panicked and furled ,
A cold wind plaintively
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 â€˜Alexâ€™?
Does he still leave his mark?
I barely turn to face the wind,
Waiting for falling leaves
To rustle up a dream.
Filed under: Out of my window