From fellow bench lover and excellent writer, 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.
Chrissie Gittins, from I Don’t Want an Avocado for an Uncle (Rabbit Hole, 2006)