Withered flowers
fastened to a wasting bench,
Its plaque and
pickled paint are weathered long.
The buckled
slats curl flecks on harshest winter's freeze.
Where age defies
intent to which it did belong.
As passers-by
whom in their daily cues entrenched,
They, wrapped in
woolen shields, look blindly on
And notice not
the broken petals on the breeze,
Nor sense the echo of a parting angels song.
Copyright
© 2013 by Simon Austin
