Park Notes

Oh yes, she's been to London,

hasn't everyone?

Wasn't she born here?

You'll like this book then,

the one full of women

and the fall of weeping willow

branches, undulating leaf margins,

oaks, red, finished.


She said, I remember crocuses

up in Spring, I had days left

before I caught the plane.

She knew of Plath but hadn't

understood. She knew of Woolf

but hadn't read her books.

Smith was not a name, it was

a bad pseudonym.


Look - take your pick from

this book of art, poetry, vignettes,

the moth dies, it is inevitable,

the pigeon roosts, it is night,

the dogs walk and walk and walk

over the park's double cut lawns.


People multiply then leave,

the water's broken reflections

can't contain anyone for long,

wait, they seem to say,

whole then broken.