His ‘little sparrow’ he called me.
He was my secret. Mummy said
not to talk to strangers, so I never did...
just sat beside him on the bench
in the park. He was there every day
for ages, come rain or shine.
He whittled things out of driftwood...
turtles, rabbits...miniature horses.
One time he made a giraffe
but its head broke off, and I laughed.
And then, he simply stopped coming,
and I never saw him again
but, very often, he’s on my mind...
and I’m there amongst the chippings;
me, his little sparrow and he – my poem.