During midge siestas, the park
is at its most engaging
when strolling beneath strawberry moons
flush with Leven grapes, lemon hollies.
Crouch low to watch trotting hedgehogs
race for slugs, barbed Usain Bolts
their six-pack stomachs
to scraps of golf flags on the putting green.
Even hedgehogs dare to dream.
The ruins of St Serfs remains
ever-shaded, fenced, memory’s lane,
graves of glassworks and glory days
buried at the back of minds.
Then forward, towards ornamental fountains,
striped, grungy bees
buzz like feedback howling
from flower-headed microphones,
beds of pollen where ravers have fallen
asleep, in love, ‘til morn.
Levengrove lip-syncs lullabies
of sea monsters, exhales seagulls
like slippers with wings
and gently moves the children swings
with the breath of piper’s lungs
and in the firework’s annual crackle,
the rusted cackle of the water pumps,
the sounds and sparkle
of ancestors’ ambling through these grounds
echoes in the intimate reflections of my hometown.
By Stephen Watt, Dumbarton
Author of books Spit (£5) and Optograms (£7.95) copies available via social media or by e-mailing Wild Word Press at firstname.lastname@example.org