This is a poem wrote this morning, very quickly, looking out of the window at the street below. I haven't written a poem since I was 17!
The hedge, the bike, the blue and silver cars,
The parking sign, the blind, the motorbike,
The black cat, the ginger one, the one-eyed tabby from next door.
A slight rustling, not of net curtains, but of the ivy that grows up number sixteen,
Me and my neighbour Juliet were sad when Mike tore it down last summer, leaving the nesting pigeon perched precariously on a branch, exposed to the harsh summer sun. He says he doesn’t like urban vermin.
The parking attendant, dressed in black and white,
Long ponytail, black cap, up and down the cul de sac
Making tracks under the light grey sky.
A white van, a delivery at number ten,
Mum of three tired, wired, takes it in.
Other people’s children trail by at four,
My own come knocking and shouting at the door.