A Very Suburban Scene of Arcadia Avenue in Spring.
Looking out from a second storey window
onto clouds of pink blossom, a perspective distorted
when caught in such colour.
(As if hand tinted for a dream.)
In the breeze these trees look like whispers of bouquets
pretending to be the song
of summers past and gone, but the melody
soon fades; it’s the realisation that this
can’t be set paperweight surreal in acetate.
The houses in neat rows, gables in lines of blank expressions
wear a sad countenance of resignation, so very unnatural,
but so are lies,
like the ones believed by the paving slabs
that life was eternal until they saw the cracks.
The dark line that zigzags through us all, and the gap
gets driven further apart by self seeding weeds
to nod their yellow heads and laugh at where the time goes.
Time goes grey…
fades far away, like turning the volume down on life.
This unearthly silence is not town or country,
no traffic roar, no birdsong, just the gentle hum
of daisy cutters flexing their blades like savage weapons.
And some remember once, scenes of angels on the dancefloor,
that could have been a myth created when they pulled the bandstand
down and the music stopped.
like two washed out milkbottles
watching grey time from the doorstep.
Patiently they sit in the shade under forsythia’s dying flame
saying nothing to each other.
Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk
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