The highest hill in the park

Green lawns of short grass are where Labradors wrestle,

There's a picket fence ringing white uniforms on the pitch.

The eucalyptus trees, lanky but still, cast shadows over gravel paths,

While two women, in sweats and dark shades, track an afternoon run.

An artist and easel look apon a shimmering pond,

The light is fading too fast for her brush,

The children are mellow as picnics are packed,

An old man with a pram shuffles in dusk.

The cafe under the canopy is not what I long,

I want the highest hill the park,

The shadows are the fading of a crisp summer day,

I'll be with gold shards and the first stars, and the curtains of the dark.