these old men

the old men
at the park, gathered
in clusters
of grey
and white sit on
the benches,
some with books
they brought to read,
pages earmarked
with photographs,
others leaning on
canes, pointing
towards something in the distance.
the sun is low, almost
under the skyline, but
the pristine blue
of the sky
is harsh
through the winter trees.
painted too blue
perhaps. sparkling
too bright for these men
who remember
everything so differently.