Returning to the street where I grew,
once heaving houses seem sworn
to a hush and curtain drawn.
(like in a western, when the gun
toting, horse riding, bully saunters
with the dust into town)
Pert bushes trimmed to precision
lined the yards of old friends,
our summers landscaped away,
replaced by exquisite coloured flowers
and extended crack- proof driveways.
Where once every window seeped
a percussion of jaunty living-
the cymbal clang of children laughing,
throbbed gong of fathers scolding,
then later the glass harp melodies
Of mothers reassuring-
now but plays talk radio
and baritone Hoovers solos.
Sadder than any human song
is the vacancy of youth’s expression.
Of tree climbing, snot nosed louts
dangling above toy scattered lawns.
Now, not so much as a petal out of place.
Front-yard cars gleam an eerie clean.
Chocolate smudged prints
On Sunday afternoon football muddied glass-
Mere memories of old living.
Winter-bare trees
recall grey slate evenings
when work released fathers
wrestled with the boys in the snow
as wistful mothers watched
from steamed kitchen windows
contemplating the well-ordered,
perfect hedged life ahead.
Some artefacts stubbornly remain.
Tony loves Lisa etched on an alleyway wall,
two loose-roof slates dislodged by a stray
cricket ball: loyal bastions of youth.
Yet approaching the streets end
two lovers expecting child
inspect a “For Sale”.
Hand in hand
they survey the jungle of lawn
conferring where little Richards
swing could go.
Writing and Random Creativity Workshops 
