Sitting On A Bench.

If I were to sit on a bench with you. At the age you should be.
I’d ask you about your day. What your favourite thing to do would be?
Have you got a scent that makes you warm and fuzzy?
We’d lay a blanket on the floor, lay ourselves upon our backs,watch the clouds form shapes. A sheep,a dinosaur a candy floss tree.
I’d look into your blue eyes,if that were so. Or daze into your brown eyes,that I’ll never know.
We’d have a jam sandwich, and you’d eat quavers,just like your dad.
You’d tell me you love to hear your siblings, how they make you smile.
We’d talk about anything that’s troubling you, and your excitement about your new school.
We’d look out over to the sea. Wave to the far away ferries,in case they could see us too.
I’d close my eyes for a moment, and take in our togetherness.
I would be able to sense you fidgeting,after all you should be 4.
The sudden volume change of the crashing waves, the noise of the seagulls, circling over head in the hope for a crumb or two.
My realisation hits,the silence that replaces you next to me.
You’re gone.
The hour has gone.
Of course it’ll never be enough.

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