This poem is being written at the Table,
There is dappled sunlight on the page, And the gentle song of suburbia surrounds me.
Our picnic table sits in our front yard,
A small patch of grass and rocks and unfinished flower beds,
Another humble work of conversion in progress.
The Table has been freshly painted by Pavanne, Not just yellow, But a colour the store called ‘English Daisy’.
We have placed it underneath our tree,
Which spreads above A canopy of dark purple leaves,
Rippled by a most welcome July breeze.
We have strung the branches with lights; And as dusk settles,
When the heat of the day eases,
It looks to me like the most perfect spot in all the world.
Our neighbours now laughingly call it ‘The Pub’,
As we emerge from our homes, with glasses and snacks,
New cocktails and stories to share.
To gather, Physically distanced, of course,
But no longer socially distant.
Just catching up, Or expanding on plans and projects,
Comparing parenting notes,
Or poking gentle fun at our idiosyncrasies.
Playing games, talking shop,
And always a cheery wave to our dog walking friends.
Sometimes the children drift out, Away from their electronic realms,
To dip a home-grown strawberry in sour cream and brown sugar,
To listen to the adults droning on…
To make a childhood memory,
That, I hope, will last a lifetime.
A memory, To show them what community Can look like,
And what it means to literally,
Love your Neighbour as Yourselves.
Written by Henry Hawkes @ Cobourg, Ontario