On a mile stone in a small town I sat trying to write
a poem, an old man sat on a wooden bench watching
me, he had a newspaper on his lap. A cat under a car
was watching him, perhaps he gave it something to eat
from time to time. With a sigh I put my notebook back
into the side pocket of my jacket. No poem today.
The man began reading his newspaper, the cat looked
away and began grooming itself. A bus stopped two
elderly ladies alighted, bags full of shopping, and all was
back to normal, but I remember the air of summer dust
diesel fumes and the aroma of lavender.
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Comments about this poem (Lavender by oskar hansen )
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