Here I am in the park again
after many years. The old
steam roller under trees,
now a relic, then a toy and
coated in the Christmas colours,
hiding iron and hard work.
I now spring to the helm:
sun selects a ray of insects
like steam out from the boiler.
No other signs of movement.
Pointing at the streaming cars,
I sight along the boiler barrel
and I might have thought
to finger for a frozen trigger.
Swings and slippery dip sit light
on the soft leaves across from me.
This immense machine must be
kept from sinking by a day
of rolling work, yet undone.