My Photo Weathered Bench and Poem Benches, Tresco by Chrissie Gittins
They’re placed at considerate intervals,
curved hurricane pine,
some weathered and scored,
some lichened and worn,
some with holes,
where the trunk swallowed a branch.
From a bench I saw a blackbird with an orange beak,
the promise of protea in fat downy buds,
the chequerboard bark of an endless palm.
From a bench I saw wagtails surrounding a horse,
the stripes of shelduck tipped up in a lake,
the oblique flight of pheasants.
From a bench I saw Atlantic waves
drawing breath, raising their shoulders
and spewing their seething froth right back to the shore.
From a bench I saw an insect in flight,
the blades of its wings whirred away from the island,
it carried me back to rumbling ground.
Posted with permission by Chrissie Gittins, from I Don’t Want an Avocado for an Uncle (Rabbit Hole, 2006)