On a May Birthday
The cuckoo in the stranger's yard
Rang four times; now a star
Of bicycle toils up the hill.
Moths thud upon the car.
Past orange caves of streetlights
The trees crowd thick and dark.
Dogs shuffle on the cooling stones
Past lost lawns of the park.
Cherries have flowered, may not begun.
It is too late, too soon.
The grass will scorch our kissing feet.
The bird's voice breaks in June.
If you've any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.