In Knighton Park one lone tree,
half in defiance, half-embarrassed,
stands intrepid with a ragged blush of blossoms,
quietly surrounded by older, taller, wiser trees
who have learnt to wait, and huddle still beneath the shaggy
load of last year’s leaves caught in a gaunt tangle of angled
branches - years of standing together patiently.
Yet there’s impatience everywhere:
a brave pre-teen in short sleeves and pensioners
with unwonted springy steps and cheerful sticks;
children on the swings and dogs in packs which owners
try in vain to unwhistle.
Most hopeful is the ice-cream van
beside the heaving climbing frame -
how powerful the tilting surges of the earth,
which make a swallowed cold a treat in such degrees.

Walking back, I see cats are content in patches barely dry
to blink at passing traffic, almost as still as trees,
whose whispering leaves are purring in the lingering light.
And houses, which just a week ago seemed stern are
friendly now: in two by twos companionable
they line the way to the newly beached ark of home.