My local park is a pleasant place;
Meandering alleys let spirits run wild,
Here and there, a couple, a well-worn bench;
And the children laugh and shout.

On a Sunday the city sighs: “Rest for a while:
Let the ants do the scurrying,” – smile on your face;
Feel the flow of the universe offer its grace;
Pine cones tumble and turn all about.

But beyond the neat hedges a hinterland lies;
Hypodermic syringes make love to the trees,
While shit-encrusted condoms play games with the breeze;
And the pine cones, and children, no doubt.