Middle England
a man and his wife, setting off
around the corner
on the pavement
by the staggered junction,
past the tall hedge toppling
its bounds
press button lights, bike lanes,
blurred cars, buses’ zig-
zag round the narrows
where the pub juts out—
grey trousers, three quarter
charcoal paddy, pink scarf,
perennial
ten minute walk
to catch the bus to town
or journey faraway.
The sky is textured damp
that does not fall but effloresces
in the air
middle age, middle England,
burgeoning
from the tolerant climate
where spiky palms grow
alongside rosemary, roses,
moss,
and ordinary life
runs on without old tragedies
of loss
where, in every village
and small town, churches—
raising funds for roofs,
spires—still mark
the centre
beyond safety barriers,
white lines, regulation,
the skies, the fields
persist, the heights
the green
depths
Amethyst Review 