Mavis Green
When the Privet Blooms
I go to Waterlow Park and if it’s warm
choose the table underneath it
have a coffee, wait for you
watch the waitress smile as though she means it.
A grandma croons old songs to a solemn baby
a group of mothers bursts apart with laughter
their tiny children spilling over grass
like balls of mercury.
Daisies get plucked, grass torn out
and wildly mixed with soil and orange peel
stirred with bits of stick in water.
A woman leaves her wheelchair
to try a few supported steps,
a father flat out on the grass
lifts his head from time to time
to watch his child sorting small stones.
You’re striding past the wild flower patch
looking towards the privet
its white brilliance hovering
against its handsome glistening green.
The waitress is watching. She’s smiling.
Page(s) 34
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