Displaced Poem by fred carter

The sun beats down on a Sunday morning,
And I’m walking through Town, through the park,
Backpack and jacket, sleeping bag in hand.

No-ones down in the park,
Save small children and who stare,
And parents who don’t, and won’t,

No familiar faces look back at me,
I don’t feel at home,
In this, the place I know so well,

It seems cold, unfeeling. All soul is gone,
As if it’s been Blown by the breeze that tugs at clothes and hair,
Or washed away by sudden influx of these unnatural people,

This place, my, and our, land, has changed hands,
Has changed, like last night to today, to a Sunday family picnic,
For parents to sit on benches and cast fleeting, uncomfortable glances in my direction