Passing Pupils


Eyes spot the trees,
point from the back seat
wonder at a batch of wings.

Engines rev, roundabouts swing
children look, birds then sing.
Passing pupils have forgotten

what lives inside a bale of trees.

Walking feet, dogs on leads
coughing, sneezing, gossip.
People look, then raise a brow,

a buzzard paper aeroplanes,
crows flick flock. Eyeballs
zone in on the robotic path.

Ignoring the lives inside that wood.

Flowers dead, years ago,
rust set in on crumbling roots
footpaths lost, child voices gone.

By Gareth Culshaw


Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

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