Stopping to write words is my impulsive habit
as hopping grey squirrels cross paths with a wild rabbit
Hedge and tree sparrows creating their fun
tweeting feathered friends under a rising sun
Goats and rowing boats resting by a shady tree
donkey rides advertised that don't come for free
Mother feeding baby upon a tartan rug
a passing loved up couple sharing a hug
Ear flicking deer romping up then down
full leafed green trees turning to brown
For who knows a bell tolls at midday
not for a slight slumbering pony anyway
Passing a multicultural horticultural area
spotting an alpaca who's growing hairier
A soaking Labrador emerges from a small lake
brushing my bare lower leg in its wake
Sitting on a bench dedicated to a lost loved one
taking in the views he loved before he was gone
A picture may paint a thousand words long
but poetry captures succinctly September birdsong
It's my fortune to live close to one of the largest municipal parks in Europe (Heaton Park), this is my account of a stroll through there this unseasonably warm September day.
There's a girl sitting on the bank.
Should she jump?
There's a bank of your mind;
The precipice, wherein lies the thoughts best unseen, rather not thought about.
There's an abyss here
adhering to the sculpture of tears I'd rather hide.
A fall of lost work unappreciated and vain.
This would be be the last you would hear of me.
But I am not a warrior, or am I?
What does my survival deign?
This municipal pool of bedraggled thoughts
It's really wearing thin.
If I lose depth, will I lose myself?
I just can't tell anymore.
All in all,
This is too obvious.
There's only one solution.
— The End —