In the dappled shade of the park,
with shadows dancing on grass,
with a book and its riveting tale
I wait for time to pass.
With twittering birds in the trees,
and laughter drifting on breeze,
with sunshine tickling my feet
I relish my life of ease.
As a wattle-bird twigs its nest
with its eye on me and my face
a breeze gently ruffles my hair.
Yes, this a favorite place.
As voices wander across
my conscious, languid mind,
contentment washes me through.
I'm at one with all humankind.
Strewn on the grass around
and seated on benches of wood
are people of every kind,
a parkland neighborhood.
But away on a lonely seat,
supine, in a dirty coat,
is a human flotsam girl
in a world estranged, remote.
Her shoes are rough and holed,
her head on a towelling rag.
Asleep, her possessive hand
clutches a shabby bag.
The neighborhood glances her way
then turns to their pressing tasks
of eating and tweeting and rest
and polishing up their masks.
I conform to the unwritten script
and cherish my well-earned time
alone in the sun with my book,
for relaxing is never a crime.
The complacent part of my heart
says she's no business of mine,
tells me to leave her alone
and keep to my side of the line.
In the dappled shade of the park
with some privileged time to pass
I think my self-centred thoughts
on the comfort of well-mown grass.
The sun rays sooth my mind,
and erase the confronting scene.
Like a cat I stretch and release
and immerse myself in the green.
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