The softness of folded letters
And finding some degree of similarity
Is a paradox
On this estate
Part public, part private
Partings of ways and manners
What was once important
Is smoothed over
On common ground
Where we live
Near Lovers Park
The survivor’s delicatessen
Suspended in air
Two balloons scrape our chimney
Lowry’s empty sky
There isn’t a breath
Of wind to keep us here
We run outside
And help fold the sheets
On promised land.
For all the noise
It is bloated indifference
That is most ravenous.
Our horror in realising
The relative closeness
Of its smile wrapped
Around our face
Smothered in silence
We look down into the void,
Its yawning indifference to the weight
Placed on both sides, barely aware,
How close to the edge we all are.
Appalled. Too afraid to let go.
And fall into what had been forgotten.
The world seems such a small place.
That, or its lights shine brightly.
And those at the front are left to burn.
She’d left such pretty things on display
And a note to explain that she may
Be gone for awhile, perhaps a day.
This rose garden is an aberration of nature,
So much beauty for one acre,
But there are spaces where we come and go and make repair.
Some people fear revolution,
They forget or never felt the hunger that came before,
Here we remember what blooms when everything’s blunt and bare.
Reaching out from itself it sits square
In the brisk dusk of a bus station
Waiting for a number 44 or a 45.