drinks, the long swing
of the sun round an empty afternoon
drenching shadows of inconsequential chatter.
Park spreads silent, the ghost of four o clock
ticks towards high tea,
bird song filters down through trees
Ritual embraces of departure,
too shrill words,
mannerisms of camaraderie mimicked
as some are lured beyond their limits
by promise of entertainment elsewhere.
All seems governed by selfish logic.
Here by six, there by seven,
night times music makes a different rhythm.
Footsteps echo among catacombs of gravel pathways.
Behind large bushes of holly and laurel
among dawns out-of-the-way places,
someone laughed, someone strayed,
and some were not playing anymore.