a girl on a bench

The trees stand tall and spiny, their naked branches stiffly spiking upwards from the rooted damp earth to the heavy grey sky above. The tips of each branch, tickled by the whisper of the wind. The patchy green and brown grass, stale from summers past, melts to golden shades of red along the corners of the pavement.
A soul or two bravely wanders through the rain, amongst the birds.
The fog covers the bay, creeping up along the shoreline – the bones of the sea swallowed, revealing only its crumbly crust along the shore. The water fades into a dense grey that’s endless. A beacon flashes in the distance, the only presence amongst the still water.
The benches at the park sit empty, as figures, watching for themselves.
One must wonder the life of a park bench

- for Mary -
- 2012 - 

A plaque, written along the back – who is Mary?
The ducks sit in a flock, motionless, ornate, until one slowly drifts away, the rest following in a line, off to their next destination.
(Does a duck love the rain?)
Drops start to fall romantically, carelessly, slowly with no predictability of rhythm or density, across the sidewalks…

-gabina