The lane lush with high banks
Yet to be adorned with spring.
New life to creep from the earth
It whispers promise in the wind.
I smell it in the mossy soil
After rain that has left –
A shiny greenness which spreads
A canopy to carpet the edged paths.
What though of the end and edge
Of love that lived in empty houses?
The plastic vehicles of joy
A bike, a scooter and toy tractors
Amongst farming fields and hills.
No rows among parents whose love
Was peeled like paint off the walls
Of now; while un-treaded lawns here
Lie rich in moss. The relics of once-was
Still show – in the faded glory of bungalows;
Rotting, moulding timber and missing tiles,
That which stole planned lives, hopes and smiles?
Swallows will nest where no broom knocks
Them down, though even the bird-song isn’t as sweet
Without the laughter of children.