A Poem I'm Working On

Saturday in the Park

On his usual bench, just north of the bandstand,
the man in the old grey coat sits quietly watching
the usual Saturday morning bustle, newspaper on his knees.
Mums with pushchairs and shopping bags hurry by;
a boy on a skateboard flips it up, catches it neatly;
the curate from the parish church, in billowing cassock,
surplice over his arm, glances at his watch without breaking stride,
a little late perhaps for his first wedding of the day.
Mid-April and a bright and sparkling morning, sunshine and smiles,
chiffchaffs belting away in the high poplars along the river path,
tulips and primulas in mixed array in the corporation beds,
and here and there, whisked on the wind,
the echo of children’s voices from the play-park near the old mill.
He’s here every Saturday, unless it really is too cold.
Years ago he would sit here while his Mary did the shopping;
now, ten years on his own, he still comes. But this is the best time,
with the daffodils out and the new green clothing the trees,
with the lawns dotted with daisies and celandines,
with everything just becoming. Spring! In heaven, he fancies,
if there is a heaven, and if heaven is as it should be,
it will be always Spring, forever just becoming,
everything just beginning to happen. He smiles, look at the time,
better go for that bus; he gets up slowly, folds the newspaper
he never really reads till he’s home, looks around once more.
Another Saturday vigil done, another week gone past,
and was that the year’s first swallow skimming by? He can’t be sure.
He was right about that wedding, though -
the old church bells have just begun to ring.