Alistair Wilkinson Author
Alistair WilkinsonAuthor

Second Day, March 24th 

I saw a plane this morning, cutting across the blue sky,  

leaving its fading white scar. The frost melted quickly,  

retreating from the suncan’t even lurk in the shadows.  

The winter is tissue now in this first warm day of spring.  

Back door open, cats in and out, kids kicking the ball,  

shouting at each other. One of them crying, then two.  


The other shouting about innocence.  


Brown patches of bare mud on the kid-trashed lawn  

crack in the sunshineThe ball bounces high into the blue. 

For the first time in months my shoes don’t sink.  


By the afternoon we were on our bikes delivering a  

birthday card. Tap on the window, wave, mouth  

pleasantries. Still wonder if a tenner in the card is enough.  


You can’t take it with you!  


A four-lane road at rush hour, always metal to metal,  

but the traffic just a trickle. Fast and spaced, busy looking  

but lonely, like an ant farm only half-fumigated.  


A woman strolls, floaty white shirt open to show a bikini top,  

a flabby little belly, a can in her hand.  

She's close to a man, a second can.  


At Aldi there’s a man on the door, a small queue. 

Please stay spacedhe says.  I say, I know. 

We just need dishwasher tablets. The trolley is just for show. 


What fool’s fucking panic-bought the fishing-fucking-fingers? 


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