Green Park Eleven

(A particularly warm and sunny April afternoon stroll through Green Park
in London offered too many images to ignore. This observation followed).

The crocus have fled and the daffodils gone,
bereft, just the dandelion gold lingers on,
a tame squirrel tugs at the creased trouser legs
of beautiful girls strewn like discarded pegs,
on tattersall rugs on the damp summer turf
their bleached Sunday newspapers billow like surf
bringing whispered languages foreign to me
from passionate lovers beneath every tree
this afternoon stroll a surreal postcard scene
of picnics and lovers and melting ice cream
under clear silent skies of azure, replete
from a bough the squawk of a lost parakeet
strange, here, amidst the capital’s special place
but there’s hardly surprise on anyone’s face

© Graham Sherwood 4/2010