Love is what makes two people sit in the middle of a bench when there is plenty of room at both ends.
Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.”
– Annie Dillard
“Watermelons and Zen students
grow pretty much the same way.
Long periods of sitting
till they ripen and grow
all juicy inside, but
when you knock them on the head
to see if they’re ready –
sound’s like nothing’s going on.”
– Peter Levitt,
View From The Park Bench
by Andrew Blakemore
Upon this old familiar bench
From which I’ve spent a time or two,
Just gazing at the sky above
And watching chestnut trees,
Which change throughout the seasons
Now their copper leaves do fall,
Which gather on this stony path
And tossed upon the breeze.
For scattered far across the field
And through the air with random flee,
From every bough it seems to pluck
Until each one is bare,
Now soon the winter shall be here
With icy chills the frosts and snow,
When I’ll not stop but carry on
And find no comfort there.
Upon this bench so old and worn
That’s scrawled and etched on every slat,
And smeared with food from yesterday
Yet still to me so kind,
For here within my solitude
Away from all the toil and spite,
I’ll take my time to look around
While others seem so blind.
Within this park the children play
Upon the swings the slide and frame,
And run around upon the grass
Just like I used to do,
But now so many years have passed
And older but no wiser I,
And wish I had my youth again
Reliving days I knew.
Upon this bench I sit and wait
And as the people pass me by,
Some of them do speak to me
Some look the other way,
Yet here the grass shall always grow
Beneath my tired and aching feet,
A friendly place I call my own
Where often I do stay.
I long for daffodils of spring
To watch them all come into flower,
When blossom blooms upon the bough
Such beauty there to see,
Then listen to the birds that sing
As if for me their sweet refrains,
And I alone shall hear them all
Each golden melody.
Upon this bench on which I rest
I think how many things have changed,
Yet here it almost seems the same
As times of long ago,
St. Mary’s there still proudly stands
And in the morning sun does shine,
As ages passed it’s witnessed all
And seen the village grow.
Now as I make my way back home
And walk along this stony path,
Adorned by scattered copper leaves
That through the autumn fell,
I know I shall return again
To lose myself within the view,
And watch the seasons changing
From the bench where I shall dwell.