On a solitary Sunday walk through the park,
ground like underfelt turning to compost,
shifting ground. The decibels of a dog's bark
echoed in still air. A distant log branch,
gnarled and thick, caught his eye.
He smiled.For some reason,
reminded of a ventriloquist's doll.
Kids conkering, a football's thud.
Two lovers wrapped in a single scarf.
The thick log branch lay, almost obscured.
He thought he heard a voice,
"I'll give you a tour of the strange and obscure,
lewd and obcene, spirits and sprites in the dead
of the night." He wore an immaculate silver birch suit,
black scar of a tie.
One hardened sap bead had become a gleaming eye.
Mouth a gash, where wood had been slashed.
"Sod off scaredy cat, go home to cocoa and toast,
chestnuts roasting on an open fire, mow the lawn,
be a fucking trier, cuddle your sweetie wife,
get back to your sad little life."
A long way down the stoney path
lay the park gate. Travelling at a rate of knots,
he fled. Mocking words, a knife in his head,
"You're the living dead , living dead, living dead..........."
He returned to the welcoming roar of polluting traffic,
laughing with relief, but people passing seemed
as phantoms in fog, while in the park
muttered the ventriloquist log.