Tuesday, May 23, 2017

On The Bench (A Pocklington Poem)

The bench it is quite welcome
For many in this town,
For visitors and locals
There’s folk from all around! 

‘Rest your weary legs’ It calls, 
In solid wooden tones 
‘Don’t push on when you’ve far to go, 
You soon won’t be alone…’

People sit and stare awhile, 
Watching world pass by, 
Making conversation, 
With strangers by their side… 

Lovers sit and lose themselves, 
Arms draped round one another, 
Before they wander on again, 
And make room for another… 

Cyclists they love the bench, 
It gives them place to rest, 
As the daily challenge 
Of the Coast to Coast is pressed.

Dogs mostly sit beside the bench, 
(While owners drink their tea) 
Or sleep beneath its welcome shade, 
(The owners quietly read…) 

Tiny tots, with ice-creams, sit, 
Swinging tiny legs, 
While Mother waits with tissues, 
To wipe face despite protest! 

Sometimes bags and jumpers lie, 
Alone, unclaimed for days, 
Then quietly they disappear, 
As quickly as they came! 

The bench is like a time capsule, 
Where moments linger on… 
A place where you can rest your soul, 
Before you carry on… 

So when you come across a bench, 
Just like the one in Pock, 
Allow yourself a moment, 
To pause and just take stock… 

Life is busy, busy, 
With always lots to do, 
It’s easy just to pass on by, 

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