Battersea park

We all face the same direction,

viewing the tennis,

listening to dogs,

hugging bread on the bridge,

and watching the park from the bench,

sunset melting into the west,

sequin rash remains,

aeroplanes like sharks through the clouds,

sirens call through the night,

just looking, watching, waiting to see,

the green packet never to be found again on the grass,

and the termination runs around again,

peaking too soon with Christmas excitement,

and the helicopter disappears behind the trees,

purple clouds pollute my horizon,

And the bread was never to be seen again.

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