The frail blue sky is unforgiving;
the sun blinds so completely
I bend my head, follow the kerb
edged with rotten leaves.

On the corner of the Green,
steps lead to a yellow door
with six nameless bells.

Thin net curtains hang still,
greyed whiteness untouched;
papers and plastic bottles pile
under basement windows.

The chime of a tram distracts,
a tuning fork note that spins
and fades down a fixed line.

Two down-and-outs slump
by the railings. One wears
a bowler hat and watches
a blackbird in the leaves.

Footsteps fall and fall;
no one stops to stare.

Mary Turley-McGrath has published two collections, New Grass under Snow (Summer Palace Press, 2003) and Forget the Lake (Arlen House, 2014). Her third, Other Routes, is due from Arlen House later this year