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Park Bench, by Britta Benson

Another poem dedicated to a bench. People will start to think I live there. I don’t. I just chose to sit on benches a lot and stare, breathe and observe. Mostly nature. The sea, the hills and the trees don’t seem to mind too much, if I gawped at them open-jawed. People are not too keen on that kind of behaviour, understandably so.

Park Bench

This is my bench,

up on the hill

with the faraway view

where I sit on good days

with a book and read

about other peoples’ adventures.

This is my bench,

on the small headland,

with the huge dead tree,

where I sit on bad days

with my jotter and write

about ugly moles on my soul,

scars and pockmarks on my heart,

and I wonder,

could I turn this around?

Shouldn’t this be the bench,

where on good days,

I channel buttercups and daisies,

and then write about the burning sun

that is my soul on her most beautiful journey

of self destruct in her own sweet time,

and about the pulsing red star

that is my heart, upbeat even downhill,

loving the silly things, smiling blindly

while caring for spiders and rescuing snails?

So on bad days,

this could be the bench,

where I gently nod to the dead tree,

filter grass with my fingers

and then read in my own book

about the two great engines of kindness

that took up refuge inside my self,

these generous sources of hope, here and now,

that never run dry.

Britta Benson

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