Sunday School

In the oppressive torpidity
of unseasonal February sunshine,
three overdressed tired old men
squat like fat budgerigars
on the overpainted wrought iron bench.

Like mothers, shooing away their young
they occasionally shuffle their Velcro feet
to discourage the encroaching fat pigeons
intent on a squabble
amongst last night’s fast food detritus.

One man a passive Attenborough
considers the irritating persistence
of the scavenging birds, afloat
in ketchup-bloodied polystyrene barges

A second enviously regards
the reckless lunging tackles
made by schoolboy footballers
caged within the abandoned tennis court

The third stares intently
at the young girl’s knickers on the swing
with the considered appreciation
of a competition judge.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017