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Season of Contrasts


It’s that time of year when trees are thick with pink blossom,
the pavement littered with stubs of cigarettes
and petals.

Two old ladies cross
at traffic lights, walk slow, lean heavily on black sticks:
their arms linked, heads together in the closeness of mutual support.

On one side of the road mortar shows chipped on a broken wall
and dandelions turn from yellow to white
behind black, metal bars.

Opposite,
graffiti stains shutters on derelict shops,
second-hand clothes hang on racks outside the One-in-Eight,

and neighboring new built stores stare with blind, white windows
across the Gloucester Road; nearby,
the park buds children.

Their voices
drown out the birds. 'He’s going to be a spider.'
'I want to be a dragon.' 'You’re going to be a robot.'

Here the traffic is less condensed, and girls swirl past
on silver scooters.'What’s that, a ruby?'
'No, it’s an emerald.'

Mothers
wheel baby buggies past cracked
timber benches, and a small boy plays with a wooden train.