PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It used to be called "Sunken Gardens", 
this section of the park. Now it is called 
"The Queen Elizabeth 2nd Gardens" 
because Her Majesty visited them. 
She wore a pale blue dress that day. 
I remember because my sisters and I 
were in the crowd. Like  the others, 
we stared at the Royal "She" in awed 
tones of respect and curiosity. 

In high school, we used the park to 
escape the hum-drum of our classes. 
Hiding behind the trees and flowers 
so that the jailers from the nearby 
school windows would not capture us 
in our freedom. We were bold in 
our youth. Finely chiselled minds in 
adolescent toned bodies. 

We'd sit under a tree, smoking and 
planning the adventure our lives would be. 
None of us would conform, or so we 
promised each other and ourselves. 
We'd be bold flashes of novelty forever 
striking a match to light the flames of 
resistance to middle class lives. 

We were children of the sixties, 
teenagers of the 1970's. Our hopes 
and dreams were not the same as 
our parents. No, we did not want 
to have the white picket fence! Instead 
we planned on how we'd take the fences 
apart and use the wood to build 
alternative ways of existing. Our plans 
were brave and solid, our dreams 
we would make become our reality. 

Now, as I walk through the park 
as a grown man, well into my descent 
towards my grave, I recall those vain 
words we spoke. Those brittle, youthful 
proclamations of a new beginning that we 
were assured of becoming. None of us 
really followed those dreams. The harsh 
bells of the "real world" would not stop 
ringing. Most of us became our parents 
all over again. Talk of freedom and 
self-expression gave way to worries over 
the mortgage and the bills. Working overtime 
so the kids can have a new pair of jeans. 

They still call it the "Queen Elizabeth 2nd 
Gardens". The flowers are still carefully 
planted every spring by the Department of 
Parks and Recreation. Sometimes I come and 
watch the young bodies at work digging the 
soil and planting the flowers in neat, tidy rows. 
Her Majesty has not visited Windsor in 
quite a long time. Her picture on the money 
makes her look older. Of course, she is older 
but than so am I. Indeed, so are all the faces 
I remember with fondness in my mind. 

If I sit quietly on one of the benches, 
and I slow down my breathing just a tad, I 
can almost hear again our voices planning 
the future none of us would have.