The cordoned off cricket pitch,
behind orange tape long,
is waiting for the grass to grow
for when the summer comes along.
The leaves are shedding their autumn gown,
upon the grass it lays,
and in her winter-time-zipped-up coat
a small girl runs and plays.
The benches around the park border
sit solemn, scuffed and lonely,
if only someone would put them back together again
before they become broken debris
The sky lengthens overhead,
a puzzling sight to see,
it stretches forth over the horizon line
buckling past the old oak trees,
and the people walk in straight lines narrow,
concentrating on the ground,
if only they’d look up not down,
they’d see the city’s teeth and not it’s frown
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