Channel Park

Under the last of Summer Sun
we sit on a bench, Springer and I,
opposite the chicken run,
my soul bowled over by the condition of this season's hops.

The ducks bathe in a raised planter,
the little one chats up a garden gnome,
a soft breeze passes from right to left,
down across the sunken city.

Malva seeds rustle in their pockets, post flower, a bee settles on a peach rose
and I cobble together a plan
for the rest of our day, Springer reluctant to let us go.

Butterflies fling about each other above the autumn veg,
a seagull flies over the exposed sight,
little gives gentle chase to ducks who'd chase her,
given a moment's peace.

Quacking breaks up the quiet,
they hide beneath my feet. The male
seems less rowdy than last I saw him, and little is quite in her element -

perhaps we'll stay the day.
Dog doesn't seem to mind.
"Live here?" She tilts, smiles. "It's good idea."
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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