A Tree in Bloom

Winter's gone. Cherry petals dust the street,
a sugared snow that sweetens cars
and parking meters, betting shops and
cheap cafés. That swirls summer
thoughts like flakes in shaken glass.

A stalling car, a sprinting dog,
those whale-music clicks
that sight the crossing blind:
all sound is song,
all movements sweep,
combine, begin to waltz,
when branches dress in pale pink
and the sky wears baby blue.

But no-one wants to sing
when November sprouts a brighter spring:
bouquets of every coloured flower
heaped like fallen fruit;
a drift of candles, red and white;
a thumbtacked vine that freights the trunk
with letters, drawings, dangling toys,
a page of scripture, a biscuit heart,
some photos of a child's face
closed in plastic sleeves
to protect them from the rain.