May 12th
 

A patio, a quartet unspoken,

Four black backs turned, inviting collusion.

Their quiet contemplation unbroken,

Exhausted, slumped at the table; all in.

Perhaps they’re mourning the soon coming days,

Or maybe ruined by previous nights?

Preferring their silence, they do not say,

Allied by muteness in crisp morning light.

Perhaps they’re waiting, to offer their seats,

To the tired and weary, needing of rest?

Who waste time telling tales, left incomplete,

Cease then depart, making space for the next.

Eloquent spaces, with so much to tell,

Go all-inclusive, and holiday in hell.

Please do leave me your thoughts and comments, in praise or constructive criticism, I appreciate them all and will reply.

Read the rest of my works at grahamparkerpoetry.com