He climbs on and jumps from bandstands and benches,

the wood-sculpted mermaid, then tackles the fences

one side of the duck pond, and spying the bridge

trip-traps across to where trolls might be hid

and challenges them to come out if they dare,

after ensuring that grandad’s close there

to assist in the skirmish if needed,

but his grandstanding passes unheeded.

There are only a posse of joggers panting,

social distancing signs, willow branches

and lovers who walk with their arms entwined,

a cacophonous gaggle of ducks where he finds

amongst the flurry of feathers and bread

there is one floating undisturbed and quite dead.

Ah, the fellowship grandad feels and must fight,

for the slumber of death in the muddle of life

and all the high places to which he aspires

that he might throw himself down and retire.

He takes grandad back to the picnic blanket

where mommy awaits with a marmite sandwich,

cordial, cake and a flask of strong tea

while grandad stares at the handkerchief tree,

abstinent, absent in his fogbound head.

But the boy wants to check if the duck is still dead,

so tugging his hands in case trolls are around

he keeps grandad’s feet firmly fixed to the ground.