Hurried voices, hurried feet,

crashing round the park.

A chaotic peace rests here

between the dawn and dark.

Swish swish, crackle crunch,

leaves now turn to dust.

The creaking of the ancient trees,

a quiet whistle of the wind,

the trickle of the stream,

a tiny swish of flowing grass,

something of daydreams.

Gentle coos of pigeons,

smells of fresh warm bread,

yaps of an excited dog,

the rich earthy smell of hope,

fighting off pollution.

Nature here is free,

who says a blind man can’t see?