On the stone bench

Iris, roses, yellow daisies
tucked into black steel containers
reminiscent of your wide brimmed hat
the long overcoat
your bag of belongings
always perched next to you.

A passerby who
like me
has eyes filled with tears
stories how once
his young son
speeding down the pathway
on his new bicycle
slid sideways into the brambles
and you, who yourself
knew too well about
falling into danger,
leapt up and rescued him
from the thorns.

Shot twice the newspaper said,
by those who had previously
threatened and harassed you
for nothing more
perhaps
than being black
blending into the predawn chill,
willing to guard the park
as if it were your home
less for comfort
and more for consideration
of the possibility
that eventually new light
might refract pain
into
possibility.