Poem by John Jussey​

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Bank Holiday in the Park

Bags fat with suncream, hats, and towels,

we form an arc

before that parody of seasides the ornamental lake.

We hunch for hours

as stiff green wavelets flop against the concrete lip,

 

and all the park

is thick with those who didn’t get away –

the gulls moored up like damaged ships,

the kids at play

without a thought for what’s beyond

the sun-struck cars, the neutered trees.

 

I watch the swans

pretending they’re not slumming it,

the couples round their potted sea,

their weekends ‘Quiet’ when probed next day.

 

And still I sit

as swallows write their cursive lines

and tell of all that we’ve not seen –

the wheatfields and the squares of pine,

the Spanish umbers, Breton greens.

They seem to say

that something hunched inside of us will never get away.