Burgess Park
Sitting On A Bench In The Park On A Sunny Day A book in my hand, I observed the geese Ambling over to me by the bench, Hissing. A row of pointed teeth. Sprays of water shooting up Glittering drops falling on sensible ducks. They cut the water as they swim. A man sat on the bench next to me - in his hand a notebook. "Do you come here often?" he asks. I question my instinct. Ravens caw loudly above, a whole crew of them circling the area. Black against the yellow sun. I look like a foreigner, an artist. It is the man, he has said so. My metal badges clink as I retrieve a pen from my bag, my metal badges are my foreigner's label