She sits on a low wall, looking out across the park.
It is her habit to come here and take in the scenes that play out. She loves writing about them, describing them, bringing the various activities to life, in the form of a poem. The woman has always made time for writing poetry. She uses a large notebook to capture what she has to say. She scribbles quickly to describe things as they come about; a dog chasing a ball, children struggling up the climbing apparatus, people stopping to admire the flower beds, mothers pushing prams and strollers, family members joining in with their various ideas about where to put things on the picnic rug. All such things are being faithfully preserved in her pages.
Sometimes it can be a café, looking out through a window, or a bench on a city street. She writes about the activities as they happen. She is the recorder. Interactions between people, movements of traffic. Capturing scenes from life; setting them down in lines of poetry that reflect the way she sees them. Mostly she comes here to the park, where she sits and watches.
She sometimes wonders why she so much prefers to sit writing poems about what other people are doing, rather than doing them herself. What does it mean that she plays little part in what she sees? Is it at all strange that she prefers to record such things rather than be a part of what unfolds in front of her?
These thoughts do not linger.
This is her role.