The view across the gardens is the same but it doesn’t have the same feel anymore.
I am not sure what kind of feeling I am searching for or even if it can be obtained again. Nothing lasts forever, well that is what people quote and I wonder if that is true why we bother searching for that certain feeling, that beautiful smell, that one moment in time.
The varying shades of green make for a unique picture. The many different coloured flowers bloom and add some decorum to the now empty lakes that are being cleaned up. The stench not as bad as one might assume. Sludge taken from the lakes is used as fertiliser for the rest of the gardens.
Laid out, the sludge reminds me of mud pools without the bubbling effect. One gets a picture of a volcanic eruption that has long passed. Dried up lava, dumped and now cooled.
I watch as visitors from all walks of life come and go. Their conversations heard by many yet listened too by only those the words were meant for.
I sit in my usual chair and sup on a Steinlager Pure. I will normally have only two but today I over indulge in this delightful beverage. The heat of the sun is quickly cooled by any breeze that comes my way. I sit in a shady area just outside the restaurant so as to soak in the view of anyone who comes or goes.
It is a tranquil place only interrupted by some child who isn’t behaving the way its parents want. My thoughts are my own and I often smile at what has been and what could be.
The thought of pulling out a gun and with one quick accurate shot I could put the child out of its misery. The other patrons would then have their peaceful time again. That makes me smile. Not that I would do it, but purely it is the simplicity of what can be achieved with such little effort.
As always time flies past and my time here is coming to an end. There is a home that requires my presence. I make my way through the forest of various floras. I take whatever trail presents its self, following it until suburbia interrupts this walk.
Peace and contentment are mine but only for a short time. The sounds of the motorway start up and the tranquillity of the gardens passes as the concrete jungle takes its place.
Author Steve Boddey