Talking to strangers

I

There’s a funny old lady who walks in the park,

looking to pass the time of day.

She seems harmless enough, so we have a few words,

then each goes on our way –

a few minutes wasted but no harm done

and I’m strangely aware that in times to come

that funny old lady will be me.

II

Sometimes on a solitary walk,

savouring the season or lost in thought,

an instant or more lasting sight

might jolt my reverie:

a winter sunset, turning leaves,

a child engrossed in play,

Autumn crocuses suddenly revealed,

the simple joy of a lovely day.

I could, like Wordsworth, take these home

to ponder with my inward eye,

but present pleasures are better shared

so I turn to a stranger who’s passing by.