(c) mmSeason 2001


Spiderman bouncetreads the downhill pavement
through the churchyard, cheeks ice-creamy,
face sulky, shredded twig between his fingers,
just too far behind thirsty mother
for her to hear his hot commentary clearly.
Cotswold-stone church behind; stone wall
with black iron railings given tempo
by that frayed stick; gravestones and crosses
all declaring loyalties, some legible still;
path of stone as ageful as the stones wall church 
sentiments; so old so ever-unaltered
as the round yews, as the round clouds –
renewed today and daily, yet every year, ever, so.
Mother teeter-totter down the paved path catchfollowing
her baby on wheels – poising a carton a crisp pack
a sweaty bust swollen pair of knees
fragile patience and straining to keep up
with Spiderman’s account of nursery –
sees the sunshine glaring at the buggy’s
lightweight aluminium frame, sees the sameness,
maybe doesn’t see today the youngness
of her baby, maybe not the oldness
of the stones, the same same singularity
of each remembered soul, each unique role
as like the others as its unique neighbour.
Each cloud-edge wisp, each dark green branchlet
patterns itself newly and is undistinguished.