Back Lane Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Back Lane
Each house backing onto the lane has a wall to enclose
the gardens from public gaze and inquisitive noses
With shards of glass to slash any burglar who goes

to invade house owner's property, as everyone knows
prevention by threat of impalement works judiciously.
But the thrush can cross this impediment in a minute

and clouds of perfumed lilac easily sails
to where unkempt grass is swaying like lime green water
and the snail with its fragile shell unstoppably crawls

like a tortoise, under washing lines releasing
their sheets to the wind, and dogs are having
a ball, while along the lane comes different levels of bark.

In a garden peony roses blossom surrounded by
thyme and chives and mint which a lumbering
pensioner tends three walls across the lane to where

a sullen woman in rollers, a black eye stamped on her face
regrets a time when she was footless, and fancy free
when she was juicy, desired as a luscious pear

Wasps, tap the glossy sides of berries feeling
for quick ways in. An old cat yawns discretely
over a song bird's bones. The wind blows soft again

moving the tall hydrangeas. A bike refuses to start,
its wheels spin uselessly. An elderly piano teacher steps from his door
his garden's a riot of colour, a shimmering canvas.

Arms flex to upturn soil, hands gripping a spade.
A wilderness of weeds is turfed aside.
A solitary robin sings mid- air
The jagged shield of glass stands firm, holds good;
The lane is lost to the world, it's two centuries old
The current tenants enjoy it, till they pass over.