Finding Buddha

Rain falls all over the park. Sensibly booted feet walk the circumference of the old firs, scenting earthy pine. Across the grass roll big tractor wheels, the grass is kept short all year. On the green the yellow-brown patched leaves show bright.
By the afternoon clouds are blown through, the sun reaches warm, a touch of summer: as though it says to us, do not forget me, I do not forget you.
Daylight darkles. One star is up, is told a wish. Three quarters of a moon crowns silver white, from the belly of night. Backlit clouds hold out, soft as blankets.
Somewhere underneath a car pulls to the road edge.
The driver leans down to find what is tapping her boot heel.
Finds one child's sock and one lost Buddha figurine.


  1. While I am sorry for whomever lost Mr. Buddha, there is definitely more than something of the meant to be that you found and appreciate him.

  2. When I pick Little Granddaughter up from nursery she always shouts 'Nam-ma! You came back!' When I pulled Buddha out from under the seat (which I am so sure I had checked when I was looking for him) I yelled 'Buddha! You came back!' Shame no passersby, would have been amusing. Anyway, he's home on my mantelpiece now and happy as ever. And I am delighted he found me again. Can't help believing he went somewhere else!


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