the park

The Park
Late January
And I toil up the hill
In the morning sun.
At the top of the park
By the railings
Just below the mansion
And the Poly car park,
I smoke three ragged Park Drive.
Tobacco shreds on my lips,
I watch the old dog-walkers
Walk their tiny dogs,
Some not tiny,
Off their heads,
Dancing in the fresh golden air.
I see by the daffodil shoots,
Ice-free, already half-grown,

Which push through the earth,
And the buds on the maple and almond,
That spring is nearly here.
Springs cursed wonder.
I tremble at the dance of
The mad March hare.
What will Easter bring?
Another breakdown?
I cling to winter’s dark cold night,
Bright sun in the park.

Christopher Baily
28 January 1999

© estate of Christopher Baily