Western Park.

It’s a deafening roar the cicadas shuffle,
echoing out across Western Park.

Here in nature's morning,
I expected silence, away from the cities drone.

What I got was Gaia shouting louder than cars.

A ball of fluff rides the breeze across in front of me
unidentified in its origin,

maybe a dogs shedding coat,
possibly a duvet inner or violence ripped jacket.

Artificial or not it seems to belong,

while it still dances just for me.

But then it settles beside cigarette butts,
pie wrappers and empties.

The breeze drops letting the acrid smell of urine permeate upwards.

At this moment the cicadas are alone
in claiming back this patch of nature,

from drunks spoiling exercises the night before.

Raising the question, Whose park is it anyway?
Who is to say another's freedom through the dark hours
was not it's intended use 

Then the breeze returns,
and on it floats away my dancing fluffball.

Shards of light break through,

looking all biblical,

a church shop faded Jesus scene in broken frame,

The atheist in me laughs that it is him who notices.

I lay back now looking up at the trees,

Embracing green mottle jades replacing dancing distortions,

My glazed eyes little by little seeing clear.

Reborn I breathe in nature’s fresh desire swimming in each lungful,

and then I expel,

move on and off the seat,

back home and towards other worlds.

Perhaps by night, I may come back for a ciggy and a beer.

                                                                                Kirk Lafferty Feb 2017