INSIDE A YELLOW LABURNUM TENT . . .

Inside a yellow laburnum tent

which the rain barely penetrates,

behind a screen of white lilac,

I want to hide.

Queen Anne`s lace and borage

tangle in the foliage

of the lower branches,

showering gold and silver petals.

Fallen chestnut blossom

on the pebbled path

has the reddish colour of raw meat

or scabs on schoolboys` knees.

Stooping, I see the fresh

flowers rest on yesterday`s petals:

darkening, softening,

mulching into the gravel.

Almost every bud and frill

of tiny crumpled leaves,

crimson and iridescent green,

shows the carnal flush of new life.

SNOWDROPS

At the top of the square, the furthest you could walk

last spring, those last few weeks before they took

you to hospital, you`d stop at the same bench,

marked with the name of someone who`d lived nearby,

whose friends wanted him to be remembered.

I`d leave you there to make my daily circuit

past the playground and the tennis courts,

but looked back from every turning. Thin face,

white beard, hat pulled low, scarf around his neck,

no doubt at all – that gaunt old man was sick.

It`s nine months since your death, but I still

see you seated on that bench whenever I pass,

as potent a presence as these firm, bright green

stalks and leaves pushing up through the cold earth.

-- And now you point towards the first snowdrops.