Park

The sprinklers were on in the park, when you took a diversion to pass through it, this aimless Saturday morning. No one around on the pathways, there's too much water. You smile, stop, park your bike, set off on a walk, listening to music. Waiting and watching each sprinkler spray, ducking and running under it at the correct moment, gleefully failing and getting drenched, and then on to the next one. The tree barks, wet and dark, each pattern standing out, as if on a monsoon day.

In between you stop to watch the dragonflies, lazily floating around in between the old trees you know since 1988, and a few squirrels, doing Saturday morning squirrel things. And hey, that sprinkler stealthily came at you through the tree leaves while you were not watching! Happiness.

Walking back through the dryer paths, you notice young couples on benches, anxiously discussing their future. Oh what will become of us, where is our life going, will you stay by me always. You are so glad you are past that age. You can afford to walk around alone, smiling through sprinklers, your wet hair sticking to your head, your spectacles blurry, and not care, and not want anything more from life.

You are learning to empty your boat, drop your baggage, disconnect, detach, and lift up lighter and freer. You are on your way out.

From somewhere far away returns this park poem, noted down more than 20 years ago.

I caught a train that passed the town where you lived

I caught a train that passed the town where you lived.
On the journey I thought of you.
One evening when the park was soaking
You hid beneath trees, and all around you dimmed itself
as if the earth were lit by gaslight.
We had faith that love would last forever.

I caught a train that passed the town where you lived.

Brian Patten

Later, while leaving the park, you notice that the pink-flower-trees of November have started to bloom, bare branches all set to be covered in delicate blossom. Another year, another beautiful season.


*Poem from old notebook, 19 Oct 1989, Thursday