(after Ezra Pound’s The Garden)
 
Hollyhocks on her orlon midi blouse
gum up infectious railings.
A sundial fields this exquisite birdcage.
Blue-mould sky is analgesic
applying pressure on plumago, kingcup, buddleia.
 
Explosions have arisen, fixed:
coming out hop, a love-lyric from Mosley,
a hundredweight of turning traitors,
vehement months.
At 80 her keepsakes are cliff-edged.
 
Beige-cheeked sprogs
blah-blah through the side-path
to Comprehensive doors.
Swankpots, stiff-necked,
flagrantly dressed and feisty,
starkly alive.