Present Day

You leave your sandal here
in hopes
it is placed in
the green overlaps.
You carry your wearying feet
past the enclave
which greenlights
the drying of
the woebegone pond.

***

Your legs take you
to all conceivable places.
Your spirit is like a sundial.

***

Your spirit leaves your legs
when the trodden path
is stony
and disappointed
with your pace.
But it holds
your mind in
the sandstones' gleam and gloam.

You hear
the cow-bells
and the rabid yelps
of boys victorious
with the convocation
of another good morning
bringing them their
favourite places in the park.

You don't translate their joy
as this is where
they leave you
beholding their fettle
on the other side,
leaving you at peace,
thinking
that
at last
you have found your own place
in this globule of green
and glassy grey of the river.

***

Your legs
are subdued
by the chiaroscuro
of haloed rays
falling on this
very globule of green
and stony grey
of the paved tracks.

Your spirits
meet your legs.
You don't run
barefeet
or dip them
in the lukewarm river.
They come here
because
the first of the sparrows
live in this globule,
the two of the five trains
on the bridge
catch your spark.

***

You know
the last of these sparrows
live here
and the greying days
are apportioned
to unfold
at eight
for you.

This summer knows.

You want to live
with this hour
for the rest
of the year.