Wooden benches under white blossom trees,
a slimming world sign – newly hung, over daffodils –
scattered and bent on a roadside bank.
Pavements crawl with naked legs,
white dimpled hunks of flesh – oil slicked.
And the people –
the people are slow in motion.
Bicycles and haircuts and pastel shorts
rip up the road in ribbons of rainbow
And through my sunglasses – I see sunglasses.
Heat stretches the benches –
slats are filled with bums and thighs
and shiny magazine sheen,
and fallen adverts;
a spa springtime treat for £59 falls
under an old oak tree,
as old as the grey derelict hospital that stands
as still as stone. I smell horse dung.
And the farmers farm and the farm machinery,
and the cows – right before the greasy smell
of Thursday special – Sausage Supper for £2.50.
The horses reflect in the chippy window.
And on the horizon, the moon is misplaced.
While kids on scooters, scoot
around an immaculately groomed roundabout.
surrounded by wooden benches
under white blossom trees.