Boxing Day morning, Walpole Park

Poem by Barbara Davey

Beneath its spreading branches
the conifer shelters a body
tucked up against the wall.

The gloom makes details
difficult to discern
but they’re using a sleeping bag
so it must have been planned
in a manner of speaking.
Out of the rain, the needled ground
will afford a measure of comfort.

At least they’re discreet.
Unlike those we pass
at entrances to the underground
or huddled by the grills
of office block ventilator shafts.

Here in the park
traffic’s a faraway rumble.
There is the play of a fountain.
They might waken
to starlings and parakeets.

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