Writing on the Wall

Sounds of rail rhythms rock us
along the backs of houses.
A red rose blooms,
two sunflowers hang heads
over wilderness and tipped settees, 
before Manor Park a faded orange rug
carpets a fence.

Stratford flashes past,
with new high rise homes, cranes
and bright clad men shifting stones.
London’s primrose brick, graffiti walls
and the Gherkin rockets
to an uncertain sky.

Spiked buddleia-shoots point up
this Norfolk trips finale.
Thick along the track,
their purple finger-flowers
beckon Liverpool Street.
We shift, rise,
more wingless bugs than butterflies,
lift baggage, set our inner compass
in the stooped hush.
Neat and tucked, prepare to scatter.

Dudmaston.

Ahead, and scattered far and wide
discarded feathers, preened out,
strew the waterside.

My child selects those that are slender, thin,
the plumes they tickle him beneath his chin
and laughing he finds more,
from wings the shafts are firm straight quills.
In ripples of air he feels their lift,
and thrills, he knows for sure they’ll drift

along the lake-edge yellow iris bloom,
golden lily, fleur de lys,
they cling to leafy spears that merge
thick among seeding  bulrush stick.
Coots, skim like stones, their sharp calls
plunge arrows of alarm, says hide,
to their fluff-black, red-topped young,
who bob, tweeting at their side

and on the bank, our boy, a spike of feathers
bunched in either hand, arms pumping hard
he leaves the land. Says, look see I can fly,
I can fly.
This becomes the child’s constant cry.

Wind-waves dismiss a mirror image of the house
but fathom-folds of green support a prettier show;
ducks, geese, water lilies float white saucers of light
that shelter trout, eels, clams with pearls below,
hello, hello, his airborne song to a surprised grebe.
It dives, distracts him, he just skims the boat house.
First flights are tricky he shouts back, good bye
then says, come with me we’ll fly and fly and fly,

he ascends the gardens grassy slope,
spots stone steps, his sharp eyes see
small daisies, and he asks,
do you look up at clever me?

He turns with alarming aerobatic grace
approaches the Hall’s formidable south face,
and in the leaded window glass catches
a quick image of his body flying past,

below, the apron lawn is spread
with flowers from their flowery bed
and trees, in blossom dripping pinks and red
and groups of tiny people who snake a tail,
along the wooded lakes fine muddy trail.

On a chimney pot I see my child,
and wave, wonder can he see me?
Breathless he looks down, he pants,
I see you, but you’re small as ants,
and I am huge, he says, as big, as big as you.

Then with a hooting yell
opens up his palms
his feathers fall he leaps,
and luckily for him,
I spread wide my arms.