Upon this old familiar bench
From which I've spent a time or two
Just gazing at the fluid sky
And watching chestnut trees,
Which change throughout the seasons
Now their copper leaves do fall
And gather on this stony path
Then 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
When 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 times 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
Then wave upon the gentle breeze
Such beauty there to see,
Then listen to the birds that sing
Their sweet refrains as if for I
And I alone shall hear them all
Each golden melody.

I leave the bench behind me now
And walk along the stony path
That's still adorned by copper leaves
To where the breeze has blown,
But know that soon I shall return
To look upon this view again
And watch the seasons changing
In this place I call my own.

ANDREW BLAKEMORE