June Walker Poems
|42.||The Pier At Herne Bay||10/7/2012|
|46.||In A Victorian Garden||5/10/2012|
Comments about June Walker
A row of sergeant-majors
stands to attention beside the girders
of the glass-house. Wearing wine red busbies
above lime green uniform stalks:
a thin red line on parade.
After spring's magnificent bloom:
shrivelled petals,3 up,3 down-
like a row of blood-torn crimson irises,
or an army limping home.
I sit on a park bench;
the traffic roar dies to a distant rumble,
birds begin to chirp
in trees and bushes.
I hear one so sweetly sing; I search…
There on the fence she perches.
She's rounder than a tennis ball-
a drab brown sparrow
with a linnet's voice.