Posted: August 30, 2010 in Bench, Creative Writing
Tags: , ,

Its wood’s gone grey with countless seasons’ wear,
And soft grasses have enveloped its feet.
Dewdrops have made blank metal auburn-fair,
And sunny summers warmed the battered seat.

The plaque that told the world the reason why
It was erected here is lost to rot;
Perhaps this site once heard a lover’s sigh,
And it stays to remember when all else is not.

And now, most days, I come out here and sit
Amongst the grasses, woods and rural views
I make a simple sense with all of it;
Finding in each living thing a smiling muse:

A song to the sunlight warm as a heart,
A picture for a plant more perfect than art;
With air in my lungs, and sky in my soul,
I know not the way, but on I will stroll.


James Harriman-Smith


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