Flower Power

A sleeping beauty woke up and looked at me, just, surrounded by highlights and so many chances of postcard pictures I see her. It's not a she, I don't know why I write that, it's a truck, maybe a former van, now a wreck some would say. Someone built her, someone left her. Then the flowers, the climbers, the sun and the soil. She is part of all that now. Her fainted yellow fits the purple and green, I'm not sure I've ever noticed the colour of a truck. There are levels of being abandoned. My father on the bench with the jingling plastic bag next to him would never have seen himself as anything but in blossom. One day he left the bench, he moved on to a pub, later on he spend his days with Miles Davis, Davis didn't know, my father never needed him to know.