Stopping for coffee on a gloomy day
the pigeons scratch and peck, bedraggled and
desultory, then flashes of white light –
gulls over-wintering in town – wheeling
between the black trees and declining sap;
the last of the long summer winter green.
Dogs chase in barked voices, those on leads yearn
for open space, craving affection from any
stranger. Two Cypriot half breed poodles,
rescued by a kindly soul from the streets
of Paphos, paw at my leg for some
affection – not withheld; otherwise
destined for extermination, living
happy contented lives in Regents Park.
Runners jog by as the Cafe owner
tells his woes, he’s moving on, not enough
to be made with this seasonal trade.
These are but the stories of the park.
The sky darkens further, a miasma
of drizzle begins to soak the flagstones,
the wooden tables and new plastic chairs –
the scene takes on a melancholy tone.
I sit and drink the pungent coffee and
try to think the thoughts I have never thought
at this great dividing point of my life.
Divorced, but still sharing the same house, a
loneliness beyond loneliness, a
pain beyond pain, a misery endured.
Looking forward to opportunities,
the feelings of hope, resignation, fear,
mingle at this moment with the flux of
the park – the comings – the goings, little
stories still untold, the dreams undreamed and
the moving on. Lives new started and lives
that soon must end. Amid the hope – new birth,
things to dissolve yet things still to attain .
These are but the stories of the park.