Companions
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
Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2016
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