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.
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