The Street

'The Street'. My naked arm leans on the cold window sill and the street comes to life without whistle or drill. A hinged gate making music with a squeak and a thud, as it meets with the post full of rust in the mud. Clip clop, clip clop a rhythm of feet, heavy bags, dropped shoulders how far now she must shriek within her bones and joints that by now start to creak. A ball a bounce, one, two three, a child with a bike and small feet that must reach. A small voice breaks the air, 'I'm telling on you', then a punch from the boy we will call number two. A postman a bag, and a letterbox to find, a bark from a dog in front not behind. A tree that is swaying, a gentle soft breeze, A neighbour with nets, a cat purring a wheeze. Flowers in rows in an orderly ground, birds soaring by on a featherless sound, An umbrella goes up, rain from the skies, observing 'The Street', with my window ledge eyes.