Back Lane

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.