Bowes Road

I’d never seen rats run on cables before
nor heard windows vibrate
to the throb of HGVs.  

Jim was a native, toured his manor
like a lord, his car stereo booming
I Wanna Be Adored

from the heart of Haringey
to its outskirts. One Saturday
bushes appeared, lifted

from the rich soil of some leafy suburb:
a chance haul, bagged and stacked into the boot,
bedded in the thin margins of the yard,

stout roots firmed and watered.
Jim had faith in their future, though neither I
nor the girl whose kiss we’d shared

believed it when the blood red buds
unfurled. Our triangle collapsed
with the Berlin Wall; summer gone

and one livid bloom hung on, defying
a lead soaked breeze that blew
from the North Circular.

Roy Marshall has worked as a gardener, delivery driver, electronics buyer and coronary care nurse among other jobs. He currently works in adult education and his collection of poems, 'The Sun Bathers' is published by Shoestring Press.

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