By Mary Ellen Flynn
I stand on my doorstep—
Neighbours’ homes sit like
Grannies drinking tea, a lull in conversation—
Legs crossed, solid.
To the right, a man talks
business into an earbud while
pacing behind overgrown buxus—
Green and woody.
Elsewhere, a rhythmic thud of a dribbled basketball,
A child’s scream like the streak of a firework,
A single car whirs and
A gate squeals, metallic and sharp.
Above, birds sit on an overhead wire-
strung like black pearls,
Chatty and so pleased with themselves—
Their song light and free as air.
Then, a loud silence
Settles like the fall of a leaf—
Until cracked by a door slammed
Final and true.
Mary Ellen Flynn is a Birmingham based writer and poet. Some of her writing is connected with her work as a teacher of children with special needs and visual impairments.