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Hear this page!
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What stories you must have to tell
What hidden tales of sorrow and joy
What indiscretions must be buried within
How many altercations have seeped into you
No control over what or whom you have absorbed
A dull day interrupted by an inquisitive sniffing visitor
Nothing changes for you except the view
Sometimes you look out to murky brown
Sometimes to waving of arms and shrieks of joy
Often to a tufted head disappearing only to reappear
Occasionally to a whirring noise and a flash of orange
Followed by a circling hovering mass of yellow above
Spring brings wafts of narcissi fragrance in your direction
Summer heralds vibrant colours from new wildflowers beyond
Turning to look at the slightly faded inscription etched into you
In Memory of Barbara Woods, who loved to sit at this spot