Time for bed, and turning out the
warm lamp lights.
Watching from my bedroom window, 
The park is very much alive tonight. 

The wind, it whistles loudly 
through the rooftops and the trees.
That small old man is back again, 
I see.
He sleeps in the same place in 
the royal oak park in front of me.

On the wood chipped brown bench
Cold, hard and damp. 
He rests his weary body for the night. 
No blankets,
Just cardboard for this old tramp.

I often caught a glimpse of him,
As he woke up from his sleep.
Behind my white cotton curtains
I'd stand. I'd watch. I'd peep.

His beard grew longer, whiter, older.
His name, I never knew.
Always sitting on his own.
I wondered who he was, 
My imagination often grew.

A group of 4, maybe 5 
approached the man. 
Complaining of a stinky, rotten stench.
His bench was littered with empty 
whiskey bottles, cigarette butts 
and urine soaked cardboard.

The poor old man got up, 
He left without saying a word.
Will he return tonight, I wonder.
Almost 11pm and still no sign.

The small, old man with the long 
white beard. 

Some Mother's son.