Even the plants have to be wily,
tucking seeds into the greasy feathers
of pigeons, spitting pips beneath the steel
eyes of the Liver birds, in coastal breezes.
But the real effort is in the tender shifting
of new roots into concrete, the sweet
curls of life twisting guttering
into submission. The deliberate
suck of puddles, drainage, dog piss.
The way buddleia lifts proud leaves
above roof slates, embraces brickwork
in its quest for sunlight away from sunbeds.
I have learnt the names of all the parks
outside the centre. Sefton, Greenbank,
Otterspool. The appeal of football, a promise
of green unchallenged by slabs or fences.
In the flat I am watched by the skull
of the hospital, with its heaving chimney.
Pigeons heap, dusty on the window ledges
of the sick. Greyer than exhaustion.
All content ©2009 Lizzy Dening
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