Inner city wandering
In September we mountain climb the slope beside the garage to
harvest petrol perfumed berries with stained fingers.
Upturned shopping trolleys stile the lane we use for speed, late for school.
Edged with conifers, mulched with flaked crisp packets softened by frost.
My pockets jingle with beer top coins. Scalloped edges
snow street-combed, perfect for robot buttons.
Here by the buddleia we wait patiently for the rune sprayed train to pass.
Emerald glass bottles sprout verdantly from its twigged fingers.
Running ahead he seesaws on a broken paving slab balancing
on this insistent sycamore root. Cross men with fluorescent sashes
inspect its escape from the square allotted to it. We will miss the piles of keys studded with bee stung, kiss-sore fag ends to scatter in the autumn winds.
We lag behind, rolling a tyre found forlornly propped by a wall.
Filled with sand you will bury dinosaurs and pennies in it all summer.
Long day weary we trail home, sunburnt and bickering.
The smell of soft rain on hot asphalt is a gentle benediction.
Adventurers we edge round the alley-stranded mattress. A mildewed
fish out of water, circled with overlapping scales of mould.
Delicate frills of fungus valence its toes. You crouch hopefully
counting the snails curled secretly in the bend of its spring.
The setting sun sets the shattered windows in this redbrick wall, fingers
up to the tracks, alight. Flames flicker over its knotweed moat.
Look at you – my darling dandelions shouldering breezeblocks out of your path.
You thrive, I thrill to every soot stained grimy vista. My heart leaps with joy.