Under the oak tree


At a certain age and sitting
On a mouldy wooden park bench watching
Children swinging in the wind pushed
By smiling mothers in short skirts.

The old oak tree sighed as a cool breeze blew
Through my memories of being there,
Where I was watching.

And all the stages in between
Folded in on each other,
The same mistakes touching across the years

And chuckling at the irony
Of each other.



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