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.

 
 

Advertisements

, , ,

  1. Leave a comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: