Late afternoon with shadows changing
as the sun by degrees lowers its angle.
I emerge from the path through a brier tangle.
Squirrels chattering, insects flying, birds singing.
It brings pleasure to take a summer walk.
The park is redolent and verdant green,
clothed in new leaves, plants alive and keen
to grow and seed. A breeze freshens then begins to balk.
There is a bench, convenient and placed.
Weathered wood from change of seasons,
it is silent. It has its reasons.
One of which is the direction it is faced.
On the hill, looking out over the lake,
Under the spotted shadows of trees
allowing one to fully enjoy the breeze.
This is a good bench, special, one I'd like to take.
I sit, relaxing, the verity of nature all around.
Glad for the bench maker, glad for his sense
To tend to his business, to accurately place this bench.
I think of the seasons, now that summer has hit the ground.
The seasons pass faster as I grow older.
Summer lasted forever before the coming of fall.
Winter and spring were eternities, I do recall.
But now pass by quickly, swiftly as an Olympic sprinter.
As I sit on this bench, enjoying the view,
The trees reflect late sparkling sun,
The children laughing, playing, always on the run.
The sun producing a kaleidoscope hue.
I know I can't stay here, darkness will fall.
Woodpeckers hammer, the song birds sing.
Oars splash the surface, producing in the water visible rings.
In gratitude for this bench and its maker, I hear the call.
Deep from within, a voice says to me,
Although I must leave, this bench to abandon,
away from my rest and this tranquil session,
this bench will always be a pleasant, peaceful memory.