Victorian Sunday Poem by Paul Reed

We walked on the same grass,
Shaded under the same trees
Breathed the same air;
We talked excitedly,
Shared the same hopes,
Saw the same light everywhere;

They caught our eye,
We heard their voice
On tier, slope and hill;
They, too, gathered by the bandstand,
Stood patiently in the queue,
Felt the same sea fret and chill;

Sampled ice cream,
Drank reviving coffee,
Felt the top of fence posts;
Looked to the evening,
Wanting to be safe,
Walking amongst their ghosts;

Laid out new clothes,
Polished shoes,
Wore their Sunday ‘best’;
Took bravely to promenade,
Stared out to sea,
Shy hid behind the rest;

Ran finger down stiff collar,
Adjusted pleat,
Smoothed crease and rumple;
Took their place
In our sepia prints
As time saw them crumple;

Now you walk forever
With nowhere to go
In the empty park;
Watch as we repeat
Your Sunday stroll
‘Till the light turns dark.