Poet in the Park

The poet sat on his favourite bench, just in front of the towering
laurel hedge, surveying the well-tended gardens happily. It was not a
warm day, a little overcast, and so there were not many people around.
It didn't matter. This place was his inspiration, and the people around
him would form the stanzas of his masterpiece.

Look at that couple over there, for example: standing a few feet apart
and shouting at each other, waving their arms in intricate patterns
loaded with hidden significance.

Their argument over, the couple left the park slowly, keeping close.
Reconciled, or just resigned? The poet didn't know, and he didn't
really care. It was the emotion that fascinated him, had enthralled
him. Repressed, pent-up, simmering frustration that had finally burst
into the light in this steaming torrent of rage that had come so close
to shattering the park's fragile serenity. Yes, this was all excellent
material.

But it wasn't even just the people that were captivating him, the poet
reflected wryly as he gazed lovingly at his other revelations.

The pigeons were on fine form that afternoon. Twenty or thirty of the
demented birds pottered around the lawns aimlessly, bullying sparrows.
Occasionally, one would struggle up into the air for a determined
wobbly flight to the next piece of ground that appealed to its
mystifying set of priorities.

Silly bloody pigeons, the poet thought, chuckling softly. But there was
no doubt that they were canny little things. He watched, spellbound, as
the whole gibbering flock converged nonchalantly on a single bench. A
little old lady had just sat down, and her gnarled hand was reaching
towards a brightly-coloured plastic bag. You know what's coming,
thought the poet as he leaned forward to watch the fat birds assemble
into an expectant throng.

The old lady calmly took out her knitting and continued work on a
straggly scarf, oblivious to the indignant rage she was provoking
around her feet. The poet, however, had been concentrating so entirely
on the birds that their sudden shock and disappointment struck him like
a palpable blow. For one wild second, he even shared the pigeons'
impulse to have a go at pecking the old hag's toes. The pigeons
considered it for slightly longer than he, but eventually dispersed
grumpily. How dare a daft old woman come and sit in their park without
bringing them their bread? It was a bloody disgrace. Against the
natural order of things.

Serves you right, decided the poet, for judging by appearances.
Something in that banal observation struck an intensely sad chord
within him, and he glowered at the nearest pigeon until it turned and
waddled away indifferently.

He was distracted from thoughts about pigeons within a minute. Another
arguing couple, perfect! All human life is here, reflected the poet
happily, all pigeon life being quite forgotten for the moment, and his
heart leaped still further when he realised that their angry path would
take them right past his bench.

The poet strained to hear their words as they approached. The details
weren't that important, but if a few could be worked in, it would lend
the stanza the quirky taste of the authentic for which the poet
yearned. These two seemed even angrier than the previous quarrelling
lovers, but irritatingly their anger was being expressed with more
restraint, as they hissed and snarled at each other rather than yelling
outright.

Closer they came, and the poet began to catch the odd word, the
occasional phrase. It seemed to be something to do with a car. Then,
just as they were about to draw level with the poet's bench, the voices
stopped. Puzzled, the poet raised his head to see what had
happened.

He recoiled with dismay from the accusing glares that the couple
directed at him as they walked past in sudden silence. They had become
aware of his scrutiny, evidently.

The poet cursed softly as they wandered out of his line of sight.
Wasn't it Heisenberg who'd said it was impossible to observe anything
without changing it? Someone like that. He had to relax, to fade into
the little world of the park and to become one with it, if he wished to
learn its most intimate secrets.

The poet slouched lower in his seat, closed his eyes, and listened to
the world with an intensity that surprised even him. Sure enough, he
was quickly rewarded by more pigeon entertainment.

A teenage girl had sat down on a bench quite close to him. She was
wearing dull clothes and had a slightly mournful air. She clutched half
a loaf of sliced bread in her left hand. But the pigeons weren't taking
any notice. She was between the ages of seven and seventy: pigeon logic
thus put her bread-bearing potential at negligible, and so there was no
room in their crowded heads for her.

The poet watched, moved in spite of himself, as the girl desperately
threw a few dry crusts on to the path in front of her. Given the
brush-off by a damn pigeon, how low must that make you feel? The crumbs
lay there, unregarded and uncherished. The girl started to look deeply
uncomfortable.

It was almost as though the whole park had sensed her discomfort. The
poet looked on as a single sparrow flew swiftly from the other side of
the distant fountains, homing in on the crusty wholemeal snack
decorating the pathway.

And of course, if there's one thing pigeons hate more than tight-fisted
grannies, it's sparrows getting a lucky break.

Within a minute, the ground around the girl was boiling with the petty,
squabbling birds. The poet suddenly realised he had forgotten to
breathe. He started to chuckle as he felt her spirits rising with all
the simple attention she was suddenly receiving. Wouldn't this make the
perfect crescendo to his ballad?

The poet's mood soured, and he looked away from the happy scene. It was
too contrived, too saccharine. He suddenly wanted nothing to do with
it. He looked instead at the small child that was happily dashing
towards him, desperate to show the poet the four-leaf clover he had
plucked from the lawns with his chubby hands.

The poet didn't want to get personally involved with his poem's
subjects, but he smiled at the excited little boy in any case. Then he
heard the mother's voice, careworn and slightly shrill.

'James! Don't bother the man, be a good boy!'

The poet nodded at James to indicate that he should probably listen to
his mother. Then he nodded a polite greeting at the lady in question
before dismissing them both from his world. On the furthest lawn he
could see a woman playing with a small fluffy dog that lay on the short
grass.

But was she? She just seemed to be batting at it from time to time. And
it didn't really seem to be responding, as far as he could tell from
this distance. Maybe the animal was dead. Maybe it wasn't actually a
dog at all, but a stuffed toy to which some deranged woman had taken a
fancy. Maybe it was just lazy.

It might be clearer nearer to our subjects, reflected the poet, but
it's at a distance that the magic of imagination can make all the
difference. And, quietly content with the profundity of these thoughts,
he settled back to ponder an interesting rhyme scheme that had just
occurred to him...

The mother quietly took James by the hand and led him away, back
towards the sandpit from which he had wandered. As soon as they were
there, she would have to tell him off. Doing that always upset her, but
she had warned her boy so many times not to talk to strange men.

And he had to pick the strangest, she thought bitterly as she looked
back over her shoulder.

His hair thick with grease, his clothes torn and mud-stained, the man
lay sprawled over the bench.

'Eee... Ohh... Eee... Ay...' he was chanting softly, his bloodshot eyes
staring into nowhere.