Westwood Park
I’m cutting back honeysuckle, keeping my distance
from berberis that could shed my blood.
Rising from my kneeling pad I close my eyes,
let the blood rush my head, see the bushes
of Westwood Park.
On our way to the park, up Westhulme Avenue,
we’d knock on the window of the porter’s lodge,
leave well-read comics for the children’s ward.
Mum would push Jill, I’d walk ahead,
eager for swings, for Mum’s hands
on my back, the wind through my bunched hair.
The roundabouts, spider’s web with painted poles
and rattling chains, the boring rocking horse,
the tall slide I came down with legs pen-knifed,
then off to explore toward the bowling greens
up the slope, perfect for roly-polies.
But never near the bushes. Always a quick dash
to the litter bin on the path then back to Mum.
I remember nothing said, just the thought
of
…………..men in bushes.
…………………………………………………..Men, waiting in bushes.
…
Hilary Robinson has an MA from MMU. She’s been published in Strix, Riggwelter, Obsessed with Pipework, Poetry Birmingham, Morning Star and the Interpreter’s House. 12 poems were published in a joint book, ‘Some Mothers Do,’ in 2018 (Beautiful Dragons Press).
atriumpoetry.com 