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Blenheim Road
On warm damp nights the snails ooze out onto Blenheim Road.
They do not sense anyone, or move out of the way,
they go where they are going,
and in the dark people step on them.
Walking on small cream crackers.
Sometimes, in the day, when the traffic stops and there are no people,
birds fly in formation along the road,
their wings beating in time -
the metre of their shared heart.
The simultaneous soft closing of books.
A path runs down through a spiral of leaves and opens up to the
sun.
No one goes down it, and I won’t use it yet -
I’ll keep it up my sleeve,
A little piece of sleeping luck.
My leafy escape chute to a hidden land.
Two ladies layout their
things and thoughts at the front of their house:
comments on global warming written on card,
a silver eel in a see-through bag,
a stag beetle in a jam jar.
A store of plenty – that’s Blenheim Road!
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