My favourite bench, furthest from prying eyes,
positioned past pestilent people’s paths,
sheltered under an oak to disguise
my silent shaking at the cool winter drafts.
The green grass tarnished brown from the wear of feet
with fallen leaves rustling, gently airborne
yet the sight before me is not now one to meet,
the befoulment of beauty leaves me torn.
Memorable bench, oh how you have changed
with broken bottles discarded by those
too careless to notice I am estranged,
from the abusive life that they chose.
Their choices make old voices never known;
what once was beautiful is never shown.
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