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Poetry from the Park

This world is a trap
With its trees, pensions, streaming media and
divisions
Each label is designed, formed, created
To drive a wedge between
us
and our goal -
a distraction from the real...
A robin flies out - so small, colourful - alive
Watches from a stick with black eyes
and flies from the sleepwalkers who shamble by.
Your eyes can be bright too, alert -
the trap is open.


--------


When you look at the ground beneath the tree
So many leaves. It's hard to imagine
how they all fit on the branches;
But trees do that, they grow their leaves
to grow more leaves to supercede
last year's growth and this year's crop
casting shade upon what got them there.
Finally they drop
giving one more use as the sun shines
lower in the sky, casting shade longer
across fallen leaves.

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