August 2012
The
clouds straddle the flats high up like china clay;
five o
clock feels warm and light as August might,
and
the flats reach up towards the beckoning light
away
from Earth like giant spikes, to head away.
Challenging
space as if it needed to be fought,
young
riders ride into the sprawling bushy park
on
bikes, some paid for, some taken for a lark,
skidding
and crashing, from game to impact sport.
The
white car with the door wide open draws a crowd,
becomes
a learning hub: a local Doctor Seuss
raps tall from a tower where trouble brews.
The
car has pedigree, a secret whispered loud,
a
half-told story’s well-known sequel, how for hours
it was
driven round, returning round a certain bend,
not
for a bad reason – just to help a friend.
There’s
talk of pacts and treaties, the sharing of powers:
“…if
one side can respect, the other understands.”
Now
even younger kids have blades; one little boy
a
blade that coils and uncoils like a toy,
a game
of stick and scatter, for brain and glands
that
boil with thoughts. The nerves send their orders;
the
bikes skid, slide round; one hits the deck;
the
rider smirks, jeans ripped, t-shirt newly wrecked.
Up in
the flats a breeze helps a mother get their suppers.
Her
thoughts simmer; she won’t go to money-lenders –
even
before the doorbell rang she’d know the score.
Now
she calls, “Supper” from the window, shouts, shouts more,
and her
message is relayed by willing messengers
Kenneth
Hyam Dec 2012
