‘Inspired’ by an old man I spotted sitting on a bench at the corner of George and St John’s Street, soaking up an unexpected blast of sunshine whilst muttering to himself. 

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The old man sits
cross legged
in the rain.
He bows his head,
and wraps his hands
around himself
and begins to sway.
He sings a song
and mouths the words
from a sombre lyric
that only he
still remembers.
The tears – tiny rivulets
of liquid; crystal clear
flow down his face,
and down his beard
as he rocks
to the rhythm
of his sombre song.
I imagine
that he remembers
and that the tears
are tears of memory,
of many yesterdays,
of loss, of pain,
and of nostalgia.
I imagine
that when his tears
cease to fall,
and the rivers on his face
dry out
he will arise in peace
until the season
of re-memory