Neighbourhood Watch
Dawn blots up the inky starless sky,
as birds tune up for the morning performance.
A cul-de-sac cluttered with sleeping cars
yawns onto a field, where ghosts of dead dogs
chase squirrels they never catch.
Same but different houses are not yet awake;
eyes drawn closed or shuttered, anticipate a sudden onslaught of light.
A tangled green battlement defends one from its frenemy,
an antiseptic abode with a manicured lawn, relentlessly mowed by a bloke wearing rubber gloves and wellies.
He has lived there for years but nobody knows his name.
A solitary hanging basket swings from a porch,
rocking to sleep the widow of a henpecked empty shell, elevated in death to Saint Bill.
Two cars smooch on a driveway, loved up in a recent and unexpected relationship.
A toppled dustbin spills its revealing guts.
A tabby cat strolls home, a dog barks, a car engine starts up.
I step away from the window.
Gaynor Clarke
