A Familiar Sight
We're a subculture, us dog walkers.
There are the ones who stop and chat,
say how they used to have a Border Terrier too
or what a nuisance puppies can be,
sympathise at their total absence of recall.
There are others who scurry by
without even a sideways glance
in case my dog's excitable hind-leg pogo
somehow infects theirs with mischief.
The couple with a Jack Russell,
fifteen and haughty, who will only stand so much
sniffing from George before he snarls a warning.
“You never know which Tom you're going to get!”
The old chap who lives on South View
with Elly, a rescue Border Collie cross who was found
roaming the Welsh hills without a collar.
They suit one another, both friendly, pleased to see us.
The spaniel who we aren't permitted to approach,
scowling with a worn tennis ball in her mouth.
Her owners watch from a bench as she plays.
“Don't come near,” says the woman, “very aggressive!”
and then, as an afterthought, “the dog, I mean!”
Eastwood crammed with trees, birds and squirrels,
the Marina where we watch seagulls drop mussels to break them,
old golf course with fairways a riot of long grass and wildflowers.
We stroll these well-trodden routes at 7 and 7,
just the two of us, sharing lop-sided adventures,
the bald bloke with the scruffy dog who always wants to play.
Greengrocer
His voice is part of East Street's soundscape:
“Anyone else for strawberries?
They’re so yummy they fill your tummy!”
You can see Asda from here
but Darren's stock is four days fresher,
brings it back from the fruit market himself.
“Two punnets of plums, a pound.
Get your lovely fresh ba-nanners!”
Oranges and onions heaped up outside,
a riot of colour and scents in the shop,
rustled into brown paper to take home,
dropped into tartan wheeled shoppers,
the baskets of mobility scooters
or eaten in the queue for the bus back to Knowle West.
But there are more shutters and boarded windows
every time you walk down this old street.
Even the charity shops are thinking twice.
For now, Darren will keep going,
forsake a social life for early rises,
yell his wares to the dwindling crowds
trust in his voice to keep them coming back.
Subway Tabernacle
So many questions. Options.
There’s a queue behind me;
I imagine them as seasoned veterans
who’ll be in and out, a precise staccato choice
rapped out as the assistant nods gravely,
acknowledges their firm grip
on this dizzying flurry of customisation.
My mouth opens and closes. I’m being judged,
a virgin who doesn’t know his
Honey Oat from his Hearty Italian,
real schoolboy stuff.
I can feel the man behind me thinking:
“You don’t belong here.
Just leave now while you still have some dignity.”
But I won’t be beaten. I hold my hands up,
turn to the assembled throng and say,
“Hey! I’ve never been here before.
I don’t know your customs or your magic words.
Yes, I’m uninitiated, but like you I’m hungry.
Help me! I’m lost, show me the way!”
And one by one they shout suggestions, their loves,
discuss how flavours and textures will combine
to give this newcomer a perfect first ride.
I walk out of there changed forever,
wave goodbye to my new friends,
who are high-fiving each other and declaiming
how this was a triumph of togetherness and how,
in times of need, all we need is the courage to ask for help.
Flight of the dragonfly 