Steve Cullen
University Parks
Inside the park gates there is silence.
No cricketers, they have all gone,
Perhaps to Italy with the summers
Last language school students.
The tourists have taken their cameras home,
And with the wind
The housemartins have left.
Like a child, I can see to the end
Of the November-blue sky.
But it is empty.
I walk carefully in a world of absences,
Not wanting to break this surface tension,
Fearing to bring the gold-leaf
Trees spinning to the ground,
To let the winter in with my soft footsteps.
But a yellow dog springs out,
Racing across the green skin of grass,
Barking, joyful, trailing its lead
Like a winters morning scarf.
Page(s) 62
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