Likestarlings

Delicate greenery

There is poetry in the suburbs, not only ´poetic´ desolation.

For me, no colours mean more than Lego´s:
there is strength´s idea in its red, in its blue,
in the boldness of its yellow. Already I see
the ambition of a ski-lift, ascending,
in parallel blocks of bumpy plastic,
up from the patio to the highest ridge
in the low retaining wall. In the Eiger rockery
there´s the soft purple of aubretia,
allysum´s white lace. The delicate greenery
of sharp alpine foliage completes the Suffragette livery -
as if my mother had arranged this tribute to that vast realised dream.

I accept the complexity of a childhood apparently organised,
I bear witness even to the gold of wasps as the monitor the fuchsia in overbrimming bloom.
I remember, now, three of us, circus-acting my father´s stepladders
all the way up our feature stairs.
The breakthroughed loft held just two vinho verde bottles.
Once the hearts of my parents´ bedside lamps
they were tactilised by Cub Scout Andrew with Wester Ross shells.
In the half-darkness Andy and I heard Lisa Nardini´s confession -
hers was a hunted clan, Macgregor her forbidden name.
In reply we each entrusted our virtual sister with our animal ideals -
Andy a charcoalish horse from the caves of Lascaux,
mine a fox, scavenging ski-resort throwaways, thriving,
living always almost alone.