Iced black summer clouds,
grizzled as a hangman’s beard
mesh, thicken and kiss grey
above a newsprint magpie
circling, scrapping with drizzle
in a flash of unreadable blurb.
Across our hoary park is heard
a party of 3 approaching.
The breach breeze stiffens,
whipping willows and birch
beside a peeling green bench.
Boy, ahead of sister, carelessly
running towards the open pitch,
holding his football like a loose cannon
rear glance just once before
he kicks to catch the wind.
Girl, older, almost woman herself
looks back, smiles and her eyes
dot dash a morse code before
she flights to the empty carousel.
Mother checks that all is well,
casts quickly into her leather clutch,
reels in a vanity mirror and tests,
moistening a finger with tongue tip
to smooth brows and hair flicks,
feels still almost young herself
as the man now breaks cover.
In an off the shoulder black vest,
the usual tattoos adorn his chest,
steels himself and takes a breath.
They embrace and almost kiss
but a last minute feint for cheeks
as though they could be French
then on the bench. A serious look,
half laughs, but whatever words
are blown skywards, can’t be heard,
are lost above to the wheeling bird.
Presently both rise and his hand
touches shoulder, somehow older,
now we can all taste light rain falling.
Both stride; he could take her hand
and she might not resist fingers
so near. At the carousel they now linger
where recumbent girl, slowly spinning,
sees them strobe, strobe and grinning.