Oliver writes: These are part of a ‘calendar’ of 12 poems set in Pitshanger Park, near where I live in Ealing. The Park is a place of leisure, but also a setting where small and large histories play out and which is not protected from the mayhem around.

    Evening Clouds

Smoke from a private bonfire seeps through
an elevated hedge and into this public space.
Twigs, leaves and other cuttings contribute
to a burnt offering at the season’s turning.

Dog walking at dusk, there are these clouds
of you as well, floating above the quiet oaks.
We used to talk about the visual equivalent
of silence, but it never quite materialised.

    Fence Post

The fence post stands here, revealed each winter
when dank earth accepts a dose of finished leaves
and decades after railings of which it was a part
were ripped and taken for a weapons foundry.

It seems some degree of unintended convenience
will have been created, removing a cast iron barrier
between this footpath and that carefully managed
recreation ground, access restricted after hours.

Why would they have left this iron pole alone,
in a lost and hidden corner? Days might ebb
and flow across its durable surface, but nothing
rectifies intrusions which neither grow nor perish.

    What Might Have Occurred

There they are again, as dusk descends, sitting
on a familiar bench, where shadows between
one pool of lamplight and the next push back
that other darkness gathering around them.

The journey here was not without its terrors.
They trust what they recall, believe nothing
more has been revealed, but whether theirs
is the only narrative has not been challenged.

Media content highlights degrees of mayhem.
Evidence from the aftermath does not explain
exactly what occurred to trigger those events.
Some trees beyond conceal a miniature river.