Cut grass
Close enough to wake the dead,
loud as the roadworks,
close buzzcut of grass.
Morning mowing in All Saints Park
and a memory of chlorophyll,
of a green Elsewhere,
when we, summerslow,
cycled to that meadow
balancing instruments
on handles and crossbars.
We piled down on unmown lawns
someone played Wish You Were Here
on a battered Spanish guitar.
The sweet hug of hash
tugged into the lungs,
you tried to dreadlock your thinning hair.
We were two lost souls,
not swimming but drowning
in the buttercups.
You cut your locks that autumn.
I’m less green than I was;
I’ve not seen you for years
you had, and have, a habit
of appearing in the mind.
**
In the library, glancing down
at the short back and sides
there are daffodils,
drooped heads as if in thought.