After the children are in school,
and the sorority of Dog Walking Mothers
has dispersed,
the park waits,
like a house prepared for visitors
yet to arrive.
Empty benches invite no one.
The horse chestnut trees,
turning crisp gold,
drop their harvest of dark brown conkers
onto the grass where, later,
they will be discovered
by small, curious hands.
Gulls investigating litter
stalk the perimeter
of the chained off cricket pitch.
Crows pick their way across the grass,
solemn, stately as Elizabethan courtiers.
Nothing else moves.
Then the old man with the little Papillion,
comes from the path beside the community centre,
a child runs into the playground, climbs the slide,
and a terrier splits the morning silence
with a delighted bark
as she goes in pursuit of her ball.
Still the park wears its air of waiting.
Worth The Candle. 