What we don’t know ( Victoria park )
A scattering of gulls are standing on the solid of the pond,
Victoria Park, like stars among the dreariness of Space:
they’re mostly motionless - but sometimes one diagonals across the scene:
the meteor is glowing for a moment, then it disappears.
The heavy swans sail though the liquid paths they’ve opened up,
pale planets, on their own predictable ecliptic through the ice:
this is not deep frozen, we’re just hovering around the zero mark
of Celsius ... this January day
There’s snow here but not much of it - light patches in the grass
that glisten faintly in among the blades and bark and moss.
Mysterious Dark Matter makes up eighty five percent
by weight of all the vastness of the Universe
Anita Greg 25/01/2021
Home ( Victoria Park)
The park is home to mistle thrushes
Blackbirds, blue tits
Ring necked doves
The park is home to hooded crows
That stride and stab among the dark
Seaweed of the estuary that runs along the path
The park is home to bright green catkins
Dangling from naked branches, January,
And bramble leaves as tough as sharkskin
That never seem to shed at all
Although the trees are stark and bare
And ice is on the ground
The park is home to herons on the platform
of Bird Island, grey and weary
travellers waiting for a train
And egrets in their glamour, pale
dancers taking to the air
With serpent necks and legs of coal
The park is home to ducks - two kinds
Upending in their search for worms -
The mallard and the teal
And swans - one kind, magnificent
Meringues upon a mirror glass,
Preening out their feathers in the rain
The park is home to roses - pruned and mostly dormant now
In oblong beds, ranks of opposing armies
Lined up and ready for the war
I would not have laid them out like that
More circular, more curved perhaps,
But there we are
A burst of birdsong from the hedge
Of beech trees round the bowling green
Fierce, melodious and loud
A robin sticks his head from out between
The curled up leaves of golden brown
His scarlet breast is heaving now
With effort from his tiny lungs,
The bellows for this artistry,
And eyes me absent-mindedly
For I am walking in his world
Anita Greg 29/01/2021
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