thelost

He sits on the park bench, waiting.
As the moon comes out the sound of old
dry leather creaks across the moonlit grass.

He waits. That's what he does, sitting
on the washed out common. People walk
by, not caring not knowing. He waits.

The night rolls on and creatures trot
the silver stained grass of the common,
snuffle among leaves and his old, grey boots.

Some pay their respects as they know
the old mans name, bend their heads and
drop offerings at his feet, bark their thanks.

A slow crease creeps over the old mans
face, he has sat in his place for as long
as grass has grown from this land.

He knows what comes next and creases
become smiles, silver becomes rose and
the sun stretches it's arms. Rises again.