25. Jun, 2020
The flowers are sun fooled
Into countryside blooms;
Poppies and cornflowers so eager for it,
They are already almost blown.
The fuchsia believes
It's in a hedgerow,
But the finches only visit
Its fine, drooping sprays,
To display and to pick,
Not to nest in it.
Birdsong flitters in a breeze
And at twenty eight degrees,
The air's fingers are syrup sticky
In my hair.
Trains drift through nearby,
Hushing on hot rails;
There's stone or metal being cut in a yard,
Nattering at our peace.
Soon, the children will play,
Crashing on their metal gates at the back,
Urgent for in, or out again,
Two small, incessant boys.
In everyone's gardens, behind their walls and fences,
People will chatter invisibly through the day,
Alone at home but just next door, all the same.
Ruth Enright
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.