The pavements that frame
the grassy clearing in the centre
of Blythswood square
were littered with broken bottles
the remnants of a summers day before.
So I sat on the glassy grass
with a green bottle of beer
alongside three children playing,
dancing with youthful exuberance
(akin to the adolescence alcoholic rebellion the day before)
in the bushes
It’s not unusual, on the hot days,
to hear the sound of bees,
So you can imagine my lack of surprise,
when the children’s piercing squeals
were met with their parents broken, shocked eyes
as a cloud of them
chased the children from their hive.
And they scampered away over broken glass,
With the sound of a thousand family pictures
over the sounds of their parents screaming.