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Personal Note:

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Poem


Cold
  is the
    iron bench
      I sit upon,
        watching for you on
        this cool Autumn morning
      but all I see is a lone
    slug moving slowly from lichen
  to lichen on the far arm rest, a
thick trail of slime marks its supine passage.
I remember our long talks as evening
  approached, sitting on this old worn bench,
    the sky blushing at us as it
      shared its multi-hued secrets,
      flowers fragrant and sweet.
    The birds singing songs
  of love to us
but it all
had to
end.
It
  was on
    your birthday
      when I told you
        I love you and gave
          you the gift, a thin gold
            chain.  You just stared at me, the
            chain dangled between your fingers.
            Letting it slowly fall to the ground
          you smiled sadly then turned and walked away.
        That was the last time I sat on this bench,
      the last time I saw your gentle smile.
    Now, it is a lonely refuge
  for me and my torpid friend,
a lost, eremitic
soul, searching for what?
Only he knows.
How I wish
to be
him.
I
  watch as
    he slowly
      traverses the
      handle when through the
    dim morning haze I glimpse
  a gleam of light from under
the bench.  It is the chain buried
  in the sand, only the clasp showing.
    I leave it for some young lovers to find.


08/17/16

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