Lake and Wood
In the park now grey with November
the lakes lie all deserted and alone.
On the opposite bank a heron of stone
stares motionless over the lifeless land.
From distant streets the voices of dreamed
up children are heard as agonized screams.
In musty water dead branches are drifting,
and there are dogs forlornly sniffing
among corrugated fallen leaves,
chip bags, scraps of wind-tossed paper.
Graffitied paintless benches wait for
the murmurings of loving couples,
whispering lips, tongues, violent kisses,
the wanton searching of wandering hands.
A flight of partridge flaps past and away,
grey on a background of yet darker greys.
Everything takes on a tinge of death
in the late park now grey with November.
A stick that is clutched in a blue-veined hand
draws meaningless lines in rust-coloured sand.
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