The Bench

Puddled iron ends with chestnut back and seat

Anchored fast into Portland concrete

Bequeathed to the indigent poor

by pseudo-philanthropic Victorian dignitaries

Benefaction guaranteeing benediction and

safe passage through the twelve gates.

Helping moreover, in some minute way,

to further deter the rabble from storming the citadel

But this old bench, indifferent to such chicanery

Continues to provide it's largesse in selfless shifts

Early doors come the shelter people

Evicted summarily after meagre servings of porridge and builder's tea

then dispersing wearily in twos, as shops and pubs heat up

Making way for the mothers with the little ones

Returning from school runs to watch the ducks, and to prattle

Recalling the freedom that they themselves had, in the innocent years

Lunchtime brings the office and factory workers

Released to re-fuel for the next session of compliance

A few, edging towards emancipation

Most, in a state of hopeless docility

Then later, the others, mainly the old

Less chatter here, more reflection, some regret

Six types of apology on offer, none of any consequence

The deeds and the damage, long since done

Then, as the sun sets, the young, boisterous and ebullient,

still learning to deal with the mysteries of existence

The never-forgotten years, when fates are determined

Pubertal exuberance renders self-control rudderless

and for the besotted, all is a sweet daze

Darkness falls, and the old bench releases it's charges

Ready for another day, asking for nothing but

The occasional re-layering of varnish and green paint