The Park

The Park
On Saturday we painted the park.
For the sky we used a silent grey and a still blue,
And gold for the river,
And yellow for the leaves,
And red for the ancient wind.
And we crafted, from the whispering of strangers,
A harmony; a song for thieves to sing.

We drew the dead-men-walking,
With their skin tanned and leather and
They stood in the shade
With the running ink in the corners.
Our friends were drawn in the field,
Under the dying sunshine…
Against the coming night....

And the watery darkness moved
Like hands, or waves over the whole scene.
They all looked unaware of the enormity of their shadows

Do you remember why we left ourselves out?
With no colour or shape at all?
So that we could be saved for an echo in a silent ocean,
Or a blade of grass in a far away place,
Because only nothing is infinite.

When we were done, (with all the clouds strung
On invisible wires, and the trees stuck on invisible cork,)
We put the painting out in the rain and
Let the ink run down the street,
Until only the dead-leather-men were left,
Under the sinking sunshine…
Against the watery darkness…
We thought it important to teach infinity a lesson,
So that it would value, like we do,
The setting sun, and the rolling tide,
And all the wisdom gleamed from seeing one’s
Life move into the shade with the running ink.
We staked a claim to a small victory over time and space
When we painted the park, with characters so real,
And visions so beautiful. Only to let something larger than ourselves
Inadvertently destroy it.