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The Tramp

Cold as ice
there he sat

Dreaming about
this and that,

Of what could
have been

If  he’d stayed
within the social scene

Each night his
shadow lies under the lamp,

He is
identified as the local tramp

The park is his
home,

Nowhere else to
roam

No hidden
agenda

Or anyone to
care for,

No personal
appointments to keep

No people at all 
to  meet

No-one to
explain to when he isn’t there,

No sacrifice to
bare

The owls watch
over him at night

Under the lamp
in the moonlight,

Where empty
beer cans surround him

Next to the
rubbish in the bin

The tramp that
wants to be alone,

And to leave
his identity unknown

By Gillian Sims

A Dedicated Bench

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On this a blue skied day
I wonder around this quiet village
Where unknown families
Inherit
Eternity together.
Lying side by side.
No longer burdened by hopes,
Dreams
Dramas or petty woes.
Here
You can come and sit
At a strangers feet
On a dedicated bench
That takes the weight of time
Off your shoulders.
I wonder about the life
They lived
In-between those numbers.

Gabriel Denver

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