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Mothers under
sky-blue sunshades
at square wooden tables
covered with patchwork cloths
of pink and lilac
sip tea from china cups
rimmed with gold
like the edges of their daydreams.

A long-haired collie -
dignity on soft padded paws,
ignores the scent
of homemade Madeira cake
and melting milk chocolate
to trot after schoolboys
with free flowing limbs
in numbered yellow and green tee-shirts
pretending to be heroes of the World Cup.

In the red-railed playground
a little girl falls
and grazes her knee.

Her howls cacophonic
with the high pitched twitter
of sparrows and blackbirds
in mottled green
Sycamore branches -
where hard beaks gouge
in combat jacket bark
for luscious grubs
to thrust down the throats
of fluffy-down chicks.

Her mother kisses the knee
and wipes away her tears.

Amid this serenity
my daughter sits beside me.
I watch her write
of patriots and freedom.
She dreams of green grass
and an Ireland united
beneath a tricolored flag.

Across the path
an escaped push-chair
rolls down-slope
and almost crashes
into the cafe's foldaway seats;
the boy inside opens
his strawberry ice-cream smeared mouth
and screams
as his father averts disaster
just in time, then quiets him
with promises of something sweet.
I look to the leafy canopy,
reflect on fledglings
learning to fly,
and think
how quickly the grass grows
at this time of year.


A teenager sings words
lost to the distance,
but his voice,
the constant strum of his guitar,
the clapping of friends,
and the tap, tap,
tapping of fingers
on the skin of a drum
fill the park with a unifying rhythm.


............................................................................................

Glimpses of St Andrew’s Park -

Mother's sit under
sky-blue sunshades
at square wooden tables

covered with patchwork clothes
of pale pink rose garden
and lilac gingham,

sipping hot tea
from white china cups
rimmed with gold

like the edges of a daydream.


A long haired collie--
dignity on soft padded paws,
ignores the sweet lemon scent

of homemade Madeira cake
and milk chocolate melting
in this brief taste of Summer.


He trots by after-school boys
in numbered buttercup-yellow
and meadow-green tee-shirts:

released to exuberant freedom
with free-flowing limbs
they relish the warmth

and pretend to be
Wayne Rooney
or Ronaldinho--

heroes of the coming World Cup.

A little girl falls
and grazes her knee
in a red-railed playground:

her howls cacophonic
with the high-pitched
twitter of sparrows,

and blackbirds unseen
in mottled green
sycamore branches--

where hard beaks gouge
in combat jacket bark
for luscious grubs

to thrust into
open throats
of fluffy-down chicks.

A mother kisses the knee
of her little girl
wipes away the tears.

My daughter sits beside me
I watch her write
of patriots and freedom.

She dreams of green grass
and an Ireland united
beneath a tricolour flag.

Across the path
an escaped push-chair
rolls downslope

and almost crashes
into the black metal legs
of a café’s foldaway seats;

the boy inside
opens his strawberry
ice-cream smeared mouth

and screams,
but his father
diverts disaster just in time

then quiets him
with sweet promises
for sometime soon.

(Tea is 75p, coffee £1).

I look to the leafy canopy
Reflect on fledglings
learning to fly

and I think how quickly
the grass grows
at this time of year.

A teenager sings words
lost to the distance
as he plays guitar;

but his voice,
the strum of guitar,
the clapping of friends

and the tap, tap,
tapping of fingers
on the skin of a drum

fills the park with rhythm.