The Bench

A Poem by David Cannon

I poem written whilst sat upon a bench watching the world go by

The Bench

I make passing observations,
Upon a wooden bench I rest,
Eating my lunchtime sandwich,
Brushing bread crumbs of my chest,
All about me strangers,
Just faces without names,
People in a hurry,
In the break of autumn rain,

A man of noble stature,
Holds a newspaper in his hand,
Smoking an old tobacco pipe,
puffing as he stands,
He sits upon the bench,
A rolled up paper by his side,
Then flicks and turns the pages,
Shielding sunlight in his eyes,

Eccentricity enshrouds him,
Wipes a handkerchief over his shoes,
He turns and tells of his childhood,
Dressed up in tailored suit,
The scent of stale tobacco,
Lingers on his breath,
As he tells me of his children,
And how the worlds become a mess,

I observe the feeding pigeons,
An old lady tosses bread,
Wearing an old Grey shabby coat,
And a red scarf upon her head,
She mutters at the pigeons,
Each and everyone has names,
They scatter as a bicycle,
Comes hurtling down the lane,

A mystery surrounds her,
She fixes stares as people go,
And she swears at passers by,
With every profanity she knows,
Nervously I smile,
Sat trying not to laugh,
As she curses like a sailor,
With a pigeon on her back,

By the roadside stands a mother,
Hand in hand with her kin,
He sings about a rainbow,
As traffics drowns him to a dim,
They walk on towards me,
The little boy keeps up the pace,
As he watches all around him,
With a smile upon his face,

Sat upon this bench,
I observe the lives of folk,
So hectic in their ways,
In the shifting traffics choke,
I gaze into the skies,
Asking questions in my mind,
I wonder of this world,
And life in modern times.