Thoughts Whilst Sitting in a Park

[billy]

For Susie, who'd never had a poem draft read to her before

"Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose garden." - T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton

I
walking through the littered park
among brown leaves and old coke cans,
strolling down stone paths until:
I reach a bench with regal view
of the wall and duck pond ahead.

here I sat as a child
(dad not seeing the sheer drop behind)
and there my mother took my hand
as said pond we strolled alongside. (alongside feels like it has one syl to many would a two syl word work better?)

now as autumn strips the trees
like a brute rapist,
my fingers swell in its harsh breeze
and I write this simple verse. ( so you're at the park, the winds howling (okay it's just a harsh breeze) and your fingers are thick from the cold: and you decide to write a poem there? : for me this line feels a little too poetical)

II
The sound of teenage merriment
shortens my breath, makes my soul wince: (soul wince feels a little to poetical)
a group of young Asian students
torment a squirrel near to me.
Why does their foreigness ease me? (two n's)

Why if I'd seen our nation's flag
imprinted on their hearts, their hands,
their bright gestures and choice of dress,
would I have shuffled off just then? the past tense of this one throws me a little.

a fine write jack not sure the word regal worked for me though i see the irony of it. (i think thats just me though.) some good strong images.
thanks for the read jack