Parks
Are cricket games
In headscarves
Grandma cheering from
Her foldaway seat
To an ice cream van version
Of Beethoven’s Fur Elise
Parks
Are dad/son kick-abouts
When knee high to a grasshopper
Are Chardonnay laid down
Without the screw top stopper
Parks
Are where shiny new football tops
Kick empty tins
With names on backs that
Weren’t parlance
The last time ‘they’ won anything
Parks
Are a peaceful hours work
For the self employed outdoors
Uncaged
Are a peaceful hours kip
For the unhoused and unwaged
Parks
Are sniffing grounds
For the four legged waggers
For community support officers
For insta snappers snapping flowers
For skunk aficionado swaggers
Parks
Are where fertile roots grow
Where every colour is
Knowingly complicit
Where thoughts
Are rife
Where life’s
The soundtrack so
Leave the headphones at home
Take a book
And pay your local
A regular visit
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