I lay upon the summer park
with it’s baize bedded on hard, heat forged earth.
And though the clouds had rallied,
still the heat and shine I felt,
the sun lighting the clouds inside,
like a torch wielding child delaying bedtime.
The promise of a breeze, yet undecided,
dithered back and forth,
in time with the fading rust squeaks
of an abandoned swing, it’s passenger
unable to resist the music box chime
of ice cream vans .
I caught a hint of spice from
the just shorn grass fleece,
by gentle hands warmed,
more an intention than a scent.
And I watched the ecstatic prance of
an Irish Setter, the chestnut sheen coat
stealing light to accent it’s graceful gait,
tongue draped from the side of it’s mouth
like a Page boy’s satin tie.
Oh to be again in that place,
at that time.