#Poem Mean Time

A break in the rain
and although the grass is wet
tourists wander bench to bench,
read the dedications: In loving memory
of John Rhys who loved nothing more
than to visit this park. They read them,
like there are rules,
each one, and then move on.

The wind’s got up again, clouds crash around,
no bookie’ll give you odds on it not raining.
Leaves scatter like spooked birds,
the branches on a malformed
beech will snap off, any second.

Then, just for a moment, I can see no one.
On the path, behind some bushes,
I hear girls chatting and, further back,
the rattle of a push-chair.

It’s October, first day of GMT.
The sun gets a moment, low in the sky,
cutting into the side of my eyes,
eyes that are too sensitive.
My mother says I’ve only got one pair of eyes
and I don’t argue,
not now she’s forgetful.
It’s hard to speak to her on the phone,
every Sunday, 16:20.
Here comes the rain.

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