In the street an ice cream
van sings a glistening tune,
parked on the kerb,
no children come outside.
It rolls away,
and the music sparkles
in the May sky,
and houses climbing on the hill.
The laburnum flowers fade,
seed pods hanging dry
like poisonous earrings.
I rest my head
on the tabby’s tum,
and his pulse presses
to my temple.
A magpie is huffing
in the hawthorn,
and my father –
protector of the songbird –
sends it to the cobalt,
with a clap.
Daniel Greenwood 