1

At the bus-stop by the iron gates, a man steps off
The green double-decker, which trundles away.
He turns towards the park. Ahead, low in the sky,
A sun red as a chilblain glares down on him
And the grubby gravel path bisecting the grass
With its molehills, wormcasts and black muddy edge.

He’s a man you’ve seen before: the kind of man
Who steps off double-deckers, whether green or not,
Wearing a fawn-coloured mac or a dark overcoat,
Balding on top though needing a haircut next week
To sort out that whiskery stuff round his neck and ears,
With scuffed shoes, a scruffy look, up to no good.

Soon the path branches, as he remembers it should.
The right-hand fork climbs towards formal gardens,
South-facing against the north wall and, further along,
Some overgrown allotments. Now he remembers
...